The Grey Paladin's Revolution
by LookIntoTheAbyss
Summary: Twenty years after surviving a bloody conflict in Gotham City, Diana of Themyscira has settled down and raised a family. But a threat looms on the horizon - a sinister foe known only as The Grey Paladin. Now old heroes must come out of retirement, forge new alliances, and unearth buried ghosts that threaten to change things forever.
1. Prologue

To The Reader,

Long time no see! You're probably asking yourself why I returned to this story—the truth is, I missed it. I always wanted to see it through. And it's something I feel I needed to do before I tried my hand at becoming an _actual _author. You finish what you start.

So, I wrote this for me and you, for the both of us. I hope you enjoy it. It's not perfect, but it's honest. Writing a cohesive and original story is a lot harder than I thought, and this story was a perfect starting place for me. For that, I will always be thankful to it. This story has taught me so much more about the writing process than any writing class. Because of this emphasis on craft, I tried to make this story standalone—it's not a direct sequel to my last story, but a spiritual follow-up. It's meant to be read and enjoyed as its own thing. So if you're new to this story, or if you've forgotten what's happened in this universe, you can start anew with this story. Neat, huh?

I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. I hope you find the twins engaging and enjoyable—they were a blast to hang around with. And it's been a blast hanging with _you. _

Your Friend,

LookIntoTheAbyss.


	2. Chapter 1 - The Ace Chemicals Factory

Chapter 1

Ra's Al Ghul followed the bloodline down to the entrance of the Ace Chemicals factory. The blood glistened in the moonlight, snaking around the side of the factory in little droplets.

He knelt to the asphalt and dipped his pinky into the blood. Superbly fresh.

"We just missed him," said Ra's. He wiped his finger on his cloak. "I would say by about three minutes."

"Let's go," said a female voice. "There's nothing for us here."

"No, my daughter, we need to clean up after him. Find the victims."

His daughter, Talia Al Ghul, materialized from the shadows. Her face was sour.

"You are a soft man, Father."

But she disappeared into the night like a wraith, moving in complete silence. Two minutes later, she emerged from the other side of the factory, her expression grim.

"They're in a storage bin. Badly beaten, but alive."

Ra's smiled softly. "Incredible."

She led him to the storage bin— inside were a dozen security guards on the ground with their arms tied behind them to a metal post. They all wore blindfolds. At the sound of footsteps, some of the security guards perked their heads up.

"W—who's there?"

"Help, please, whoever you are. One of our men is bleeding out."

Ra's Al Ghul beheld the scene for a moment. Such amateurs. They never stood a chance.

"He certainly has become more savage," said Talia pointedly.

"Indeed," said Ra's. He walked around the security guards and found the bleeding man. He was unconscious with a shallow pool of blood collecting underneath him. Ra's gently turned the man's leg: there was a long, shallow gash along the thigh.

"Missed the femoral by a centimeter," said Ra's. "You poor, lucky bastard."

He pulled a small syringe from his pocket. There was vibrant green liquid swishing about inside. Ra's brought it to the security's guard thigh and injected him. The unconscious man made a low, slurring sound.

An adjacent guard twitched at the sound. "What are you doing to him?"

"Saving his life," said Ra's dispassionately. He put away the syringe. "Although he doesn't deserve it—none of you do. And you call yourselves 'professionals.'"

A watch on Talia's wrist suddenly let out a chirp.

"The silent alarm has called the police," said Talia. "They should be here in minutes."

"Call an ambulance," said Ra's. "Otherwise this will be homicide instead of robbery. We do not need the extra attention."

Talia's face turned even sourer, but she did as commanded.

They walked out of the storage bin. There were police sirens wailing distantly.

"That's two factories out of three, Father," said Talia. She looked up at the glowing neon _Ace Chemicals_ sign above them. "Now he only needs one more."

"I know how to count, Talia."

Talia stepped in front of her father, her arms crossed. "Then you realized we can't stop him. Not by ourselves. We need help."

"And I agree with you. But as we've discussed before: they will be allies of _my _choosing."

Talia's eyes narrowed. "And as we haven't discussed before: you are using _my _warriors, because you killed all of yours trying to chase himdown."

Ra's exhaled through his nostrils. "Your point being?"

"That threats coming from a man without any soldiers behind him are not real threats," said Talia sweetly. "And if these new allies of yours prove to be unworthy, the decision will fall unto me. And _I_ will do what must be done."

Blue-and-red neon lights flashed across the patina of the city's skyscrapers. The roar of the police engines rumbled.

"Enough," said Ra's, dismissing the conversation with a deft whip of his hand. "Tomorrow we pay them a visit. We will get these allies you are so anxious to acquire."

"They won't be enough," said Talia. She disappeared into the shadows with an arrogant swagger in her hips.

"They'll be enough," said Ra's. He turned his eyes over the river, looking out to the edges of the city limits: a singular hill stood in the distance, overlooking the river basin. And there was an impressive home sitting upon the crest of the hill. A home with a family.

That family had no idea what was in store for them tomorrow.

"They will be enough," repeated Ra's.

He hated how hopeful he sounded. He did not like relying on an immeasurably elusive substance like hope. Maybe his daughter was right. He sounded incredibly naïve.

"For your sake, Bruce," he added quietly, before disappearing into the night. "I hope that they're enough."


	3. Chapter 2 - The Family on the Hill

Chapter 2

The sun rose peacefully on the house on the hill. It dimmed the night at first, gradually turning up its heat until the black receded in the wake of so much blue. Lovely blue sky and dying night. The world coming into being. And then the little baby cried for his mother.

"I got it," mumbled Steve, turning over on the bed. But he fell back to sleep. So it was Diana who got up from the bed, her hair frizzy and a mess.

"David," she said, approaching the crib. "What's the matter, baby? Are you hungry?"

David was a cheery baby with soft blue eyes. When he cried it was barely more than a little moan, as if he only wanted to politely disturb them. It always melted her heart.

Behind her, Steve appeared. He was rubbing his eyes. "It was my turn."

"You always say that," said Diana. She took David into her arms and laid him against her chest. She pulled down her blouse and carefully raised her nipple to David's mouth.

"I don't think the 5am feedings are over yet."

"You're beautiful when you're like that, Di."

"It's all him. He's the beautiful one."

The little baby looked up at her with his blue eyes as he suckled at his mother's breast. Steve put his hands on her shoulder.

"I wish I could paint or draw, Di. To show you the kind of mother you are."

"You're sweet," said Diana. "But if you really want to help, you can start putting up the decorations."

Steve laughed and kissed her on the cheek. He quickly put on a shirt and jeans. But he lingered at the doorway, savoring the image of Diana nurturing their son. Then he walked out, his footsteps upbeat and excited.

"And what are _you_ thinking?" Diana whispered to her son. "What mysteries are in your head?"

The little baby only looked up at her with big blue curiosity. Some milk dribbled down his cheek.

Diana slowly sank into a nearby chair. It had been two decades since she last breastfed. She needed to savor it. There would be a time when her baby would stop suckling at her breast and then he would be walking out to take his driver's license exam. That's how it happened with Emma and William. It went by so fast.

After a few minutes, little David moved his head to the side, evidently having had his full. He shifted silently in her arms and soon fell back asleep. The soft sound of his breathing, barely discernible, was in tune with his rising tiny belly. Diana almost cried. He was effortless and adorable. He was perfect.

She gently put him back into the crib and began dressing herself for the day. David would sleep for a few more hours and she needed to take advantage of them. But she also lingered at the doorway, looking back at the crib with an uneasy sensation in her mind. He was safe, she knew that. There was even a baby-cam on his crib. Nothing would hurt him.

And still, there was doubt prickling at her mind. It was the same with Will and Emma. She wanted to be around her children at all times, to keep them safe. But that was a foolish idea, a part of her knew that.

Downstairs, Steve was sitting at the kitchen island. He was drinking coffee while reading a newspaper.

"Since when do you read the paper?" she asked.

"I always read the Times."

"I mean an actual paper_,_ Steve. Normally you read on your tablet."

"Oh, right." Steve put the paper on the table. "I subscribed for Alfred. We're getting it for the rest of the week, too."

Diana kissed her husband on the cheek. "That's sweet of you."

She poured herself a steaming cup and searched their fridge for fruit and yogurt. She laid out her breakfast on the table and sat across from her husband. Steve picked up the paper again.

"So who is picking Alfred up from the airport?" asked Diana.

"Emma. He gets in at 2."

Steve read silently for a moment longer before announcing in a low voice. "Gordon's retiring next week."

"I know that. It was all over the news last month."

Steve sat back in his chair. He shook his head. "Hard to believe he's done."

"Do you know who the mayor is picking to replace him?"

"Everyone's got Yindel pegged. She's tough, smart, and she's kissed enough behinds to get the job. Plus she's playing ball with the city bigwigs on the C.A.R.E. ordinance."

"What do you mean 'playing ball'? Is she sending in police officers to clear out the homeless?"

Steve put his mug down. "I don't think it'll come to that, Di."

"CARE," said Diana derisively. "The city doesn't care about the homeless in New Gotham, Steve. They just want everyone out so they can build new condominiums and office spaces."

Steve put a hand on her arm. "Don't do it to yourself, Di. You're not an autocrat. You have a board of stockholders who have a voice, too."

"I know," said Diana. "But how am I going to explain to David when he gets older that his mother's company—his family's company—backed a referendum to evacuate people out of their homes?"

Steve turned the page of his newspaper—a wide, sweeping gesture that looked entirely too grand. "That's why they're moving them to the shelters in Old Gotham: that's the "Relocation" in C.A.R.E.: 'Community Aid, Relocation, and Engagement' in C.A.R.E."

"It's 'Removal,' Steve," said Diana quietly. "They're not hurting anyone there. They just want to shove them over to the Old Gotham where they'll suffer in silence."

The sound of heavy boots came down the staircase, and then appeared the youthful face of William Trevor. His eyes were red, like he hadn't slept, and his hair was messy and wet from a rushed shower. He wore a black uniform with a gun belt around his waist. He was fixing the silver badge across his left breast, it read: _GCPD._

"Morning," he mumbled, without looking at them. He went straight for the coffee.

"Good morning, son," said Diana. "How did you sleep?"

"I slept enough," said William. He poured coffee while he fiddled with the badge at his chest.

His movements said so loudly what his lips didn't. There was an edginess to him. Not violent but restrained. Hunched shoulders and a general reluctance to open up. William Trevor was not a morning person.

"You look so handsome in that uniform," said Diana. She smoothed the creases along his shoulders. "How's work?"

"It's fine," said William. He still had his back to her. "Still a trainee. Most of the time I'm answering thefts and domestic disputes. Been kicking out squatters mainly."

"She meant how do you _like _your work?" said Steve. "Do you enjoy it?"

William turned around slowly to face them. He stirred his coffee methodically. "I don't know, Dad, do you enjoy _your _job? Or how about _you_, Mom?"

"Will," said Diana heavily, "We just want to make sure you're okay."

Steve threw her a knowing look. They both knew their son. He could be colder and stiffer than a stonewall.

William's badge kept swinging out of place. He tried to fix it while sipping at his coffee.

Diana calmly batted his hands away. "Let me."

William watched her with a smile that could almost be mistaken for gratitude.

"We're just really proud of you, Will," said Diana. She smoothed the creases around the badge. "Soon you'll officially be Officer Trevor."

William looked a little amused. "Yep, and I'll be making forty grand a year, Mom. You're proud of that?"

"I know it's not about the money, Will," said Diana, with a pained smile on her face. Even she was sometimes annoyed by her son's angst.

"What your mom is trying to say is that we love you, Son," said Steve. "That's all that matters. You could be a garbage man, and we'd still love you."

William coolly sipped his cup. "What's wrong with being a garbage man?"

Diana nearly rolled her eyes. "For heaven's sakes, Will. . . "

Steve laughed, which elicited a small grin out of William. That's how they were – conspiratorial and always in on the joke. Diana meanwhile returned to her yogurt, irritated. "Your birthday party starts at 7pm tonight, William Trevor. Try to be on time?"

"I'll try," said William. "But I can't make any promises—"

Steve coughed politely.

"I—I'll be there on time, Mother," said William. Steve winked at him approvingly.

They heard more footsteps coming down the staircase, but unlike William's heavy boots, these footsteps were precise and bright. And the person was humming.

"See you guys later," said William all-of-a-sudden. He started walking out of the kitchen.

"You forgetting something there?" said Diana. She had a knowing smile on her face.

William stopped in his tracks. He looked visibly displeased, as if debating something in his mind. He doubled back into the kitchen and gave both of his parents a kiss on the cheek.

"Thank you," said a visibly pleased Diana. "And please be safe."

"I will, Mom," mumbled William. But before he could disappear from the kitchen, his badge swung loose off his shirt and clattered to the floor. It landed just underneath the kitchen island.

"Dammit," hissed William. He got on all fours and pawed for the badge. But it was too far deep.

A pair of heels suddenly stopped before William's eyes. A pair of tan legs extended up from these heels and connected to the body of Emma Trevor. She was looking down at William. She wore a confused, pleased smile.

"Little-brother," she said. "I thought we were going to work together?"

William reluctantly got to his feet. He measured up dead even with his fraternal twin, despite her heels. They had the same hazel eyes, and the same jawline. But that's where the similarities ended between them. Emma, in her stylish pantsuit to match her heels, with her hair neatly parted about in a chic bob, and holding an expensive purse, looked like she was a fashion designer on her way to a gala. And William, in his standard-issue uniform—with his tired face and black boots, looked like the security guard at that gala.

Emma eyed the kitchen island. "Did you drop something underneath it?"

"No," said William.

Emma laughed. "Of course, you did."

Diana appeared with a broomstick. "Emma, move over. I'll try and poke it out."

Diana swiped underneath the kitchen island with the fibers of the broom, but she caught nothing but flecks of dust. Diana squatted on her knees and slid the broom laterally underneath the kitchen island. She swung the broom in wide arcs, but no to avail.

Steve hopped off his seat. "I'll get the vacuum, Di."

William looked at his watch. He was already running late.

Emma, who could not hide her disbelief anymore, very carefully set her purse to the side.

"You guys are ridiculous. Watch out, Mom."

Emma grabbed one side of the kitchen island, and with the slightest effort, lifted the kitchen island clean off the floor. The badge lay in the middle of a square outline of dirt. Emma picked it up with one hand, and with the other, she carefully lowered the kitchen island back into place.

Emma held the badge out to William. "There you are, little brother."

William did not share the same enthusiasm as his sister. He was scowling, and accepted the badge with resentment clear on his face. Emma looked at him curiously.

Diana got to her feet slowly. She was not happy either.

"Emma, we've talked about this. You can't keep breaking the rules."

Now Emma looked at both William and Diana in disbelief. "Oh please, there's nobody here, Mom. You were taking forever! And Will was going to be late, weren't you, Will?"

Emma turned to her brother. It was clear that she needed his help against their mother. And because Emma had just helped recover William's badge, she expected he would come to her defense—if not out of brotherly compassion, then at the very least to return the favor.

Instead, William shoved his hands into his pockets. He refused to meet any of them in the eye. "I have to go," was all he said before ducking out of the kitchen. They all heard his stormy footsteps as he crossed the living room and exited out the front door.

In the absence of William's support, Emma swung her purse like it was a small toy. So he had abandoned her. She didn't know why she felt disappointed. He was always a moody boy. Still, it hurt to be abandoned – especially whenever their mother was on her case about the rules.

Emma thought it best to change the subject. She didn't want to have to defend herself again. She looked around the kitchen. "Do I smell coffee?"

Steve nodded. "I'll pour you a cup, baby."

Emma placed her purse on the table and sat down. She was a morning person, just like her father. Her energy infectious as was her radiant smile, and when she sat next to Diana, it was hard to tell them apart. However, Diana still looked displeased at Emma. It was clear that her mother was not yet finished with the scolding.

Steve slid a steaming mug in front of Emma. "Two sugars with cream."

"Mhmm," sipped Emma. "Dad, this is really good."

"The secret is low expectations," said Steve, his eyes twinkling. "It's the first thing you've had this morning. You got nothing to compare it to."

Emma sipped more coffee. She could feel her mother's eyes still on her. Steve noticed, too, which is why he quickly changed the subject.

"So you're picking up Alfred at 2pm, baby. What time does the party start again at, Diana?"

Diana knew immediately what Steve was trying to do, but now Steve was on Emma's side, leaving Diana outnumbered. And this, more than anything, reminded Diana that it was silly to remain frustrated with her family. She let her displeasure go.

"Seven o'clock," said Diana. She turned to Emma with a more gentle tone. "Did you guys get Alfred anything for his homecoming?"

Emma leaned back in her chair. She looked a little more relaxed. "I got him a record player and some jazz vinyl. I think Will got him a gift card or something."

Diana's face fell. "A gift card. Seriously, Emma?"

"I told him to come with me to the Mall last week. He said he couldn't go."

"You know the hours Will works, Emma. You couldn't have bought him something while you were at the Mall?"

Emma put her coffee down. Now their mother was coming to her brother's defense, when moments ago he refused to come to Emma's. "Yes, Mom. I thought of that, but he said he could buy his own present for Alfred. So what was I supposed to do?"

But before Diana could respond, Steve intervened again, noticing the tension between mother and daughter.

"I'll talk to him when he gets back, Di," said Steve. "Man-to-Man. Don't worry. We'll go to the batting cages or something."

Emma, who was raising her coffee up to her lips, snorted. This sent coffee spraying all over the table.

Diana closed her eyes. Her children loved to test her patience.

"I'm sorry," said Emma. "It's just—Will going to the batting cages!? You have a better chance of getting Alfred to do the tango."

"You're not helping, kid," said Steve in an obviously displeased tone, although the corners of his lips were upturned.

"Fine, fine," said Emma. She was picked up a paper towel and started on the counter.

Steve took the towel from her. "Go on, I'll clean this up. Say hit to Alfred when you see him."

"Thanks, Dad." She kissed her parents both on the cheek. "See you guys tonight."

"Have a good day, my love," said Diana in a tired but tender tone.

Steve winked at Emma. "Go get 'em, baby."

When Emma was gone, Steve wiped the counter clean of coffee. Diana watched him.

"I know you're tired of hearing it," said Steve as he worked. "But she looks _exactly _like you, Di. Down to that killer smile."

"That's nice to hear, Steve. I just wish she _listened _to me."

"She does listen to you."

"No, she really doesn't. You don't notice it because you're Dad, whereas I'm just Mom."

Steve stopped wiping the table. He looked up at her, confused.

"I have no idea what you mean, Di."

Diana got up from the table. She kissed Steve's bewildered face.

"You're adorable when you're confused, Steve. That's why I can't stand to be angry at you."

Diana collected the dirty dishes and went to the sink. Steve put away the paper and went out the living room. When he returned, he carried an armful of party supplies and set them out on the kitchen table.

"Want me to start in the living room?"

Diana rinsed a mug in the sink. "Maybe just tie up a few balloons. Save the rest for the backyard."

"Yes, ma'am," said Steve. He started blowing up half a dozen balloons. Across the leathery face of the balloons were hazel lettering: _twenty-one years!_

"Twenty-one years," repeated Diana. She watched the water sluice over the mugs.

Their kitchen window held view over their backyard, and by extension, the basin below. From their house atop the hill they oversaw the great silhouette of Gotham City. The blue skyscrapers like giant marble statues rising from the ground. The sun was out, and the cumulous clouds were painted perfectly against a waterblue sky. It was a lovely summer day.

So why did she feel so nervous? Her body twitched with a horrible sense of dread. Suddenly, she had to go to the bathroom. Maybe she would stop with the French press. The coffee was evidently too strong.

She returned her attention to the mugs before her. With her left hand she held a mug underneath the water. With her right she started scrubbing with the sponge. She focused on the lathering.

"Hey, Di," called out Steve's voice. "I know we haven't talked about it, but I was thinking, since the kids are older, and Alfred is going to be in town, maybe we should try and have one more trip to the Sierras for Christmas. Maybe Thanksgiving?"

"Aren't you the one who said you wanted to have Christmas at home?" she returned.

"I know. But how many more Christmases does Alfred have in him? I think we should go big. We don't go out for the holiday's as much anymore. Maybe I'll try and get the kids to dress up for Halloween—"

The mug in Diana's hand shattered. Her hands snapped back instinctively, and this sent the broken pieces clattering across the kitchen counter. A few pieces tumbled over the edge and onto the floor. The water kept running. Diana stared at the broken pieces. She didn't understand.

Steve's footsteps rushed to the kitchen. He hung at the doorway, holding a hammer in his hand.

"What's going on?"

"I—I broke a mug, Steve."

"Oh." He looked at the broken pieces on the floor. "That hasn't happened in a while."

"Yes," said Diana. Her throat felt dry and itchy. She smoothed out her shirt to hide the trembling of her fingers. "I guess my mind slipped."

She went to get the dustpan and broom, but her thoughts were in a million places. Why was she nervous? On a day like this, with the cumulous clouds and the waterblue sky? What could be wrong in paradise? She thought about her children. They were twenty-one years old. They'd be starting their own lives, out there, in Gotham City, underneath those clouds and that waterblue sky.

"Di," said Steve's far away voice. "Di? Are you there?"

"Steve? Yes, I'm here."

Steve took a closer look at her. His face has lost its playfulness. "What's going on, Di?"

"Nothing," she said quickly, a little too quickly. "I'm just…the coffee. I had too much."

But the truth was that there were deeply buried memories surging up from oblivion—things she thought she had forgotten: the Long Halloween, the holiday killings. And there was the secret she swore to a dying man.

_I'll protect your city. I'll protect our children. _

"Diana," said Steve slowly. He was holding her face. "Are you sure you're alright?"

And quite suddenly, the nervousness vanished in her stomach. The thoughts fell away like so many weightless leaves in the wind. She was herself again. Her husband was holding her.

With a measured confidence, Diana looked back into Steve's tender, concerned eyes. "I'm fine, Steve. I just forgot that we have a lot to do. The party, the airport, and now the Commissioner's retirement. They'll probably expect us to make an appearance."

Steve looked at her doubtfully. He was no fool. He knew there was more than what she was saying. But instead of pressing the issue, his face slowly split into a charming, patient smile. "Easy there, Princess. You may be super but you're still human. And we humans take it a day at a time, right?"

In that moment, Diana remembered why she married Steve Trevor. He was smart, and he was handsome, but most of all, he was a good man.

"Of course, Steve," she said. She squeezed his hand.

"Well, alright then." He took the broom and dustpan from her and started cleaning up the shattered mug. "Let's get this party started."


	4. Chapter 3 - The Trainee

Chapter 3

William sat in the passenger seat of his patrol vehicle. His supervising partner was Aaron Cash, an old time Veteran whose chest vibrated as he spoke. He was a dark man, with an attitude blacker and stronger than coffee, as he liked to say. They were driving around New Gotham today, and Cash had a lax quality to him, as if nothing provoked him or made him feel uneasy. Jazz music played from their radio, and Cash nodded to the beat as he gently pulled the steering wheel around the streets of New Gotham.

"Ain't much going on in New Gotham," said Cash in his baritone voice. "I mean, not the kind of crime _we _can do much about. Most of the shit that goes on here goes on up there."

Cash pointed with his finger up to the skyscrapers bordering the streets. From here, they sprouted out of the ground and soared up to infinity.

"White collar crime, white collar drugs, it's all out here. But that's not what you'll be doing as Gotham City Police. Mainly its—"

"Domestics and burglaries," said William. "I know."

"So, you _have_ been listening this whole time. God, I thought you were just gonna sit there and be quiet the whole time."

"I don't want to make mistakes, sir."

Cash laughed. "If you want to be good police, you're going to have be a good partner, Trevor. It's like being on a ship. Makes the time past faster if you get along with the men."

_I didn't become police to make friends, _thought William. But he knew better than to say that.

"This is a good spot for the new kids," continued Cash. "But back in my day? Hell no. New Gotham was one helluva a hot hospot. What with the Penguin and his goons running around, carrying military-grade weapons; or the Joker blowing up hospital to pass the time? I mean what the hell is a policeman supposed to do against _that_?"

They drove onto the longest street in the city, Main Avenue. It bisected New Gotham laterally and fed into the Main Bridge that separated New and Old Gotham. There were many pockets of homeless tents straddling the Avenue. The faces of the homeless were defeated and empty, and whenever they did get up from their shabby tents, they wandered aimlessly.

"They call this the wealthy side of Gotham City," muttered Cash. He was watching the streets. "Shit, sometimes, you wouldn't know it."

"When do we start kicking everyone out?" said William. He tried to sound nonchalant about it, as if this was a topic he read about briefly in a headline. "I mean, if we do, that is. I heard that the new Commissioner is promising to use cops to enforce the referendum."

"Yeah I heard about that, too," said Cash in a low tone. He looked displeased and irritated. "It's a shameful way to use police: we're here to protect the people, not kick them when they're down. And most of the homeless here, they're not really doing anything except dirtying the city. Name me one thing they're doing that's truly illegal."

"Loitering?"

"A victimless crime, if there was ever such a 's these white-collar pricks – they don't like having them around. It's like a dark spot on a x-ray that you don't want to think about it. So they're pushing everyone who doesn't make six-figures over that side of the bridge – and it's only going to make Old Gotham worse. We're already stretched pretty thin over there."

They turned onto the financial district of New Gotham. The busiest and most wealthy part of Gotham. There were endless banks and brokerage firms running down the main avenue. They all looked the same: marble white and supported by Greek columns. The money was obscene. It spilled out in the faces of the brokers and bankers who walked Main Avenue. They wore their money on their body and didn't care who noticed.

"There used to be all the best coffee shops in this area," said Cash. "Right here on your left, there was a nice spot owned by a man named Mr. Kim. Good man, but the rent got him. Now look, the new place has all those 'hipster' kids in it. They don't even serve coffee."

Cash slowed the vehicle so he could squint out the side of William's window. He read aloud: "'Dark Horse Coffee Bootyki.' Jesus, what the hell kind of name is that?"

"It's called 'boutique' not booties."

Cash laughed. "You look like you belong in there, Trevor. Maybe you're regretting your choice of profession?"

"I don't drink artisanal coffee."

"'Artisanal coffee,'" repeated Cash in a lofty voice. "My, my, Trevor."

They were coming upon the tallest building of the avenue—Wayne Enterprises. It lay at the center of Main Avenue, giving it an air of discernible importance over the other firms of the avenue. The exterior was painted an obsidian black, making it the black sheep that reigned over the others.

William fought the urge to squirm in his seat. He never told anyone who he was, who his family was. He had managed to stay relatively invisible at the academy as a recruit. Nobody knew that he, technically, was the heir to Wayne Enterprises.

Cash drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "Here's what I call the watering hole for a police officer. If you run behind on your quotas, come here. I once cleared 10 tickets in two hours."

Cash's eyes suddenly went keen. Up ahead, and true to his word, was a shiny luxury BMW parked in a redzone outside a café. Cash pulled up behind and set the car into park.

"Follow me. I'll show you what I mean."

Cash got out of his car, William followed silently. They circled the BMW. The engine was still on, sending up hot air from the exhaust. Cash pulled out his ticket book and started taking down the license plate.

"Hey! What the hell is going on!?"

There was a furious man in a business suit coming out of the café. He had a coffee in his hand, and in the other, a ring of keys. He was surprisingly fit, and wore a lean designer suit that struggled to contain the man's impressive biceps.

"Is this your car, sir?" said Cash in a bored tone. He didn't look up from writing the ticket.

"You're damn right this is my car. What the hell are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing? I'm writing you a ticket."

"Why the hell are you giving me a ticket?"

William couldn't help but laugh at that comment: How could the man be so dense?

"Oh is that funny to you?" The man was looking between Cash and William with a sneer. "What are you, his little helper?"

William could understand the man's point: William possessed a youthful face and a thin, wiry, body. Cash, however, had graying hair and protruding beer belly, which only emphasized the age disparity between the of them. And of the three men surrounding the BMW, it was the man in the suit who was the most physically fit. He was the one who looked like a 'man' according to modern beauty standards.

"You're parked in a redzone," said William. He pointed to the fire hydrant. "We could have your car towed. Technically."

"Is that a threat? Do you know who I am? I'm on the board of Wayne Enterprises. I could buy _fifteen _more cars with what I make in a week. And you'd have to go back to your miserable job that ruins people's days."

William suddenly found himself annoyed. Up to this point, he had actually felt some sympathy for the man. But now his sympathy was rapidly evaporating. William hated people like this— people who thought that the world was their plaything. He had seen enough of it whenever his mother had taken him to the Wayne Enterprises boardmeetings – those swarthy sneers, the austere arrogance, the regal superiority. And this man was dripping in it.

"Just let us do our job, sir," said William in a slightly hardened tone. "There's no need to get angry."

The man noticed William's change in tone; it fueled him. He puffed his chest out like a gorilla. "Oh yeah?! How about this: _you_ are going to get a call from my lawyer, and I'm going to have both of you riding a court bench. You hear me, you poor, miserable fucks? I'm going to be buying another Beamer while you two clean out your desks!"

And in a final display of his anger, the man threw his coffee onto the ground. Hot brown droplets splattered everywhere: onto the pavement, onto the BMW, and onto William's trousers.

Cash slowly lowered his parking ticket. He looked at William. Everyone looked at William – the bystanders, the homeless, the people in the café. Everyone knew what the demonstration with the coffee was—a challenge to William's authority. And now it was William's turn. Would he run or fight?

William knew he couldn't take the man physically. He knew that from watching his sister – people with immense strength handled themselves lazily and comfortably, and this man was ready to throw punches. William saw a different strategy appear in his mind: instead of fists, he saw words. Inky, black, boring words.

William reached for his handcuffs, and began reciting: "Gotham City Penal Code, chapter twenty-two, section zero one: Assault on a public servant. Third-degree felony. The assailant may be charged with up to 10 years in prison, and or a fine of up to 10, 000 dollars."

Cash looked at William with a small, knowing smile. William read on.

"Assault is defined by, but not limited to, intentional or reckless bodily injury to another person. Assault can also be defined by physical contact with a public servant that can be reasonably perceived offensive or provocative."

William pointed at the empty coffee cup on the ground. He pointed at his trousers. Then he looked at Cash.

"I would consider that provocative," said Cash thoughtfully. "Maybe even offensive."

The man in the suit watched silently. The fury was obvious on his face, but there was an undercurrent of doubt, too. It was in his eyes – the way they darted uncertainly.

"Oh please," said the man finally, in a much more subdued tone. "I didn't even touch you."

Cash then very slowly, very deliberately put his hand on his gun. William understood that he should follow suit: so there they were, two police officers with their hands near their guns.

Maybe it was just coincidence, but the man in the suit, seeing two men with guns, took an unconscious step backwards. And he remained like that, silent and distant, while Cash finished writing out the ticket.

"There you are." Cash presented the ticket book like it was a newborn baby. "Sign in the little box. You'll have a ticket sent through the mail, which I'm sure you'll have no problem paying. You have yourself a nice day, sir. And buy a new coffee – tell me it's on us."

They went back into the car. Cash was chuckling lowly.

"Way to take the initiative, Trevor. Where the hell did you get all that rule book nonsense?"

William shrugged. "It's just something I remembered from the penal code. My academy instructor was a real pain in the ass for exams."

The truth was that William had a photographic memory. But he didn't like telling people. They stared at him afterwards and begged him to demonstrate his abilities before them.

"I like how you said, 'public servant.'"

"Yeah," said William. Now that the thrill was over, the doubt was seeping in. "I could have gotten into trouble for that, couldn't I? Making arrests as a trainee?"

"If that idiot had called your bluff, yeah, it could have been bad," conceded Cash. He tapped the badge on William's chest. "But you got this. For now, that's all theyneed to now. And you used it the right way. Take a look at what I mean."

Outside, there were many people casting furtive glances toward their vehicle. There were many cars driving obnoxiously slow as well, as if making sure Cash and William took note of their careful driving.

"Most of the time it's like this," said Cash. "People see the badge and they immediately turn stiff. But every now and then you get guys who thinks the law doesn't apply to them – like our friend the BMW driver."

"Do you think he'll actually sue you?" said William. "Sue me?"

Cash snorted. "He'll be snorting the whole department. It'll get logged up in the county clerk's office, and it'll be years before it goes to a trial. And I'll be long gone by then. And you won't be a trainee anymore. You'll be part of the family. You'll have the union behind you."

The radio on their dashboard suddenly spurted to life. A voice rent the air.

"Cash, we got a call out on Old Gotham. Municipal Waste Building."

Cash grabbed the receiver. "I'm with a trainee in New Gotham. Why the hell are you calling me?"

"It's a Code 39. And the Lieutenant wants you on it. She said it's another 'wolfpack' situation."

Cash's face immediately turned grey. It was a very unnerving sight to see: a man, so full of lax, easy energy, to turn stone sober from one word.

The radio cracked to life. "Shall I tell the LT you're busy?"

Cash took a long look at William. Then he glanced toward the spot on the pavement where the coffee stained. And William felt a sudden rush of adrenaline; it felt like looking over the edge of a tall mountain.

"No, Dispatch, we're on it."

Cash hung the receiver back into its clip. He put the car into gear. "Emergency measures, Trevor. Hate to do this. You're getting two cherries popped today."

Cash flicked on the sirens. Every pedestrian in the street looked their way.

"You're not squeamish are you?"

William shook his head. "I can handle blood."

Cash scowled. "That's not what I asked."

The ride to Old Gotham was a simple ride over the Main Bridge, and it was made much easier by the wail of their sirens. William felt the distinct shift in atmosphere as he crossed the bridge. Gone were the shiny, opulent skyscrapers of New Gotham. This side of the city was riddled with rusted scaffolding and half-finished buildings. He had read in school that Old Gotham was once a great industrial city. A mecca for shipbuilding and ironworks. But now, after so many recessions, the city of iron had rusted away. Now there was not much but abandoned factories and rusty train tracks. It was like the carcass of an animal in the desert.

"Most of the cops live on this side of the city," said Cash quietly. "Me included. What about you?"

"I live in the city," lied William. "But it isn't glamorous, I live with five college buds."

"You got to do what you have to do," said Cash, with just a hint of approval in his tone.

The lies came so easily to William. Technically, he wasn't lying about anything related to work, but it still felt disengenous to lie to his superior officer. Especially one who was as lax and reassuring as Cash. But how could William admit to Cash that he lived in a palace atop the hill in one of Gotham's wealthiest suburbs. How could Cash take him seriously, especially after what just transpired in New Gotham?

Cash kept his eyes carefully on the streets before him in Old Gotham. It looked like he was waiting for something to happen. William didn't blame him. They passed several stretches that didn't seem too friendly. Here, the dusty citizens did not look away from the police gaze. They stared back, unafraid.

William studied the badge on his breast. It was a little dented from its fall. And there were lines of dirt in the insignia that read: _to protect and serve_. That was his job. To protect and serve others. He kept thinking about his sister. The way she had so easily picked up the kitchen island, which he remembered weighed exactly three-hundred forty-two pounds (because he ordered it for his mother's birthday, three years prior). He remembered everything: dates, mathematical formulas, nutrition facts.

Emma irritated him sometimes. She always did what she wanted and nobody told her otherwise. Dad spoiled her, and Mom tolerated her. William knew it would come back and bite her in the end. That thought cheered him up for a moment, then the shame settled in immediately. Emma was his sister: why the hell did he want something bad to happen to her?

He was snapped out of his thoughts by a sudden smell in the air. They were pulling into a waste management facility. There was only one other car in the lot. Cash killed the engine and stepped out of his car, his nose immediately wrinkling from the smell.

"Officers! Over here!"

A middle-aged man in faded blue jeans and an outdoor jacket was standing at front of the facility. He had very gray hair, and his clothes were washed but stained with the impressions of dust and grime that comes with years of use. He had worked here for some time.

"You take the point on this one," said Cash in a low voice. "Let's see how you do with these people."

There was something about the way Cash said 'these people' that made William a little hesitant. It was if this middle-aged man in jeans and jacket was a bigger threat than the gorilla in the suit from earlier.

"Hello there," called out William. "I'm Officer Trevor—I mean, I'm Cadet Trevor, and this is Officer Cash. I mean Sergeant Cash. You called earlier?"

The middle-aged man eyed William doubtfully for several seconds. Then looked at Cash.

Cash sighed. "He's a trainee for now. But he's police, just like me. You called about an unidentified body?"

"I did. I found her 15 minutes ago. I usually get here before anyone else: open up the shop, do the paperwork, those sorts of things."

"Did you touch the body?"

"No, she's exactly how I found her."

Cash hoisted up his belt. "Can you show us?"

The man continued to eye William doubtfully. Then he pulled out a ring of keys from his backpocket. "Yeah, I'll take you. Just hold on a sec."

He walked into a nearby office and came out with an empty 10-gallon bucket. Then he pointed around the corner of the facility. "This way."

William glanced nervously at the bucket. "Why are you bringing that?"

The man's face turned a shade somber – like he was remembering something particularly painful. Whatever it was that lay beyond the corner of the facility, it was not good.

"Alright, lead the way," said Cash finally. He did not seem too disturbed by the bucket – he looked grave and bracing, like he was preparing himself for a deep dive into a lake.

The man gave them one more glance. "Have you two officers had breakfast yet?"

"Why?" asked William.

Silence. The man kept scrutinizing them – his gaze particularly on William.

"I had coffee and a croissant," said Cash. "Trevor here doesn't eat until noon."

The man gave the faintest nod of approval. "Good."

Then the man started walking down the side of the factory. Cash fell in line, and William, after a second of hesitation, moved forward as well. His legs carried him forward, unconsciously, while his mind was racing with thoughts: what horrors lurked ahead beyond the factory walls? And the remnants of his coffee churned inside his nervous, toiling belly.


	5. Chapter 4 - The Long Boardmeeting

Chapter 4

Emma Trevor began her day by taking the train into town. It was a hopeless drive by car—so much traffic and annoyances, she had no idea how her brother did it. But the trip was still a long one, and Emma wasn't one to waste her mind on the phone. She didn't like being plugged in and facing down like every other commuter on the train.

Emma Trevor, instead, took a book out her bag and began to read. Alfred had sent it to her. He sent her snail-mail packages with books and letters, and because the process took many weeks, sometimes a month, for the next book to arrive, Emma always had plenty of time to finish a book and send Alfred her thoughts.

This book in particular was about female revolutionaries in the Americas. These were tough, daring women who fought against the worst dictatorships in the last century. Emma smiled as she read: Alfred knew what he was doing. Always since she was little, he had egged her on.

Her book reading, however, made her vulnerable to sleazy-eyed male passengers who did not have the slightest politeness. Just when the book was starting to gain traction, and she finally felt herself slip into the flow of the narrative, some suit-jacketed hyena who thought himself slick would lean over to her and say 'how is that book?'

There was one such passenger on board today. He took the seat next to her, despite the fact that there were at least a dozen seats available. He was quiet for a moment. She saw him catching glances to her. She paid him no mind. And hoped he would keep his mouth shut.

"How is that?" he finally, inevitably, said.

Emma pretended to not hear him. That was her first line of defense. But then she saw he shifted a little closer, and repeated the question with such a confidence that could not go unheard.

"It's good," she said politely. She started rummaging in her purse for her headphones.

"Why are you reading it?"

_Because it's my life. _That's what she wanted to say.

"My grandfather gave it to me," she said. She couldn't find her headphones.

"You should read this one instead."

From his suitcase he pulled out a paperback: How to Win Friends and Influence People.

"I'm a trader," he explained matter-of-factly. "I have my own firm, right there on Main avenue. Olson and Barnes?"

"Good for you," she said. There were only five more train strops. She just had to hold it together.

"What do you do?"

Emma was fighting off the urge to throw the book at the man's face. But then she had another idea.

"I'm just trying to read my book," she said.

He looked like he had been slapped. And his kind, charming face contoured into a grimace.

"Damn, sorry for just trying to make a conversation."

Emma turned the page. Three more stops.

She had hoped he would take the hint, but instead of scurrying away with his tail between his legs, the man gained new resolve from her rejection. He cleared his throat.

"Do you think you'll get far in life with that kind of attitude?"

Emma slowly put her book down. The man was smiling at her. Maybe he thought he had finally done it; that his rude determination had broken through her defenses. Now he expected her to give up the coy act and succumb to the inevitability of his charm.

But Emma just wanted to punt him across the city. And it wasn't a metaphor. She could actually do it.

"Have a good morning," she said in a flawless and neutral tone. She stood up and gathered her purse. She would get off at the next train stop. She had to get away. This man had no idea how dangerously stupid his smile was. It was the ugliest smile she had ever seen.

The man, however, followed her as she tried to leave. "Hold on, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

He put his hand on her arm. And whatever the man did or did not mean to do went out of the picture, as far as Emma was concerned. What she knew was this: a man, a stranger, had taken the liberty to touch her body. Her body. _Her _body.

She snapped her arm away, a gesture that cost her no effort. It was like tugging on a lawnmower to get the engine running. The man went flying forward in the direction of her arm and fell, in a glorious heap, on the floor of the train.

"Apology accepted." Emma stepped over him and his wild, confused expression. As she exited the train doors, the other commuters were whispering and muttering. The man was getting to his feet, muttering something about "slipping while trying to help that girl off the train."

Emma fought off the urge to laugh. Men. What fragile egos.

But the day didn't turn out to be as bad as the train incident might have foretold. It was a beautiful morning, and she always enjoyed stretching her legs. She was naturally athletic, blessed with powerful arms and legs – as that poor man on the train had learned for himself. So Emma walked down the Avenue. Now she was just another commuter on her way to work. She liked the anonymity, the blending in. There was a school bus with kids on the street. They wore soccer gear. Emma waved her hand at them. She always wanted to play a sport in high school. But that wouldn't have been fair to the other kids, according to her mother.

On her way to work she passed through the bizarre Canary Square. This area of the city was a tourist trap with ridiculously priced shops and restaurants. But the main gimmick were the giant jumbotrons mounted on the faces of the skyscrapers. Everything from perfumes to insurance was advertised on those screens.

The other noteworthy part of the Square were the rows of homeless tents along the sidewalk. It really was bizarre: the tents were made out of filthy tarp and molded quilts, but they were bivouacked underneath the wainscoting and marble paneling of the storefronts. Some of the homeless were street performers, and they played a wiry guitar or a rusted brass instrument and had a hat out before them for the donations. The others were simply watchers – they sat with dead-eyed stares that gave nothing away as to their internal thoughts about the tourists and commuters walking along the square. And accordingly, the tourists and commuters did not return the gaze.

It was like a great game of chicken. The pedestrians pretended not to notice the homeless tents, and the homeless did not condemn the pedestrians for letting their fellow man live in squalid conditions. This way, both parties walked away with something from the exchange: the pedestrians walked away without guilt, and the homeless were allowed to remain in place.

But Emma didn't take part in this stupid game. She always made sure to make eye contact with anyone who came and talked to her. It was a matter of principle. She hated the idea of looking down at someone.

And sure enough, a man in shabby jeans and grey t-shirt came walking up to her. The words_ Gotham Knights Football _ran across his shirt. He was bald, lean, and had sunken cheeks that, with his slightly blackened gums, gave him a rather gaunt look. But his face was always jovial, and when he smiled, it possessed a jack-o-lantern charm.

"Emma, ma'am," said the man in a booming, accented voice. "You are a little late, no?"

"Nineb," greeted Emma. "Just the man I wanted to see."

Nineb fell in line with her while keeping a respectable distance. He was wearing his blackened-gum smile. "Be careful. It is not always good to look for an Assyrian. We are dangerous people."

"I thought you said you were an 'endangered' people, Nineb?"

"Same difference, ma'am."

Nineb always called her 'ma'am,' which Emma found herself not really minding, but liking.

"I usually see you here at seven-thirty, ma'am. It is nearly eight."

"I had a little family trouble. And then there was this idiot on the train."

"Family trouble," said Nineb sympathetically. "That is the best and worst kind."

"How about you, Nineb?"

"I have family trouble, too. My wife doesn't love me, my kids use all of my money. I have no purpose in life."

Emma smile politely – the horrible thing was that Nineb was lying. But not about his wife or his kids, but because he had neither of those things. His family was back in Iraq, and he was here. Nineb saw this look on her face and realized that she wasn't up to playing today. He looked a little apologetic.

"But I have report on all the doings," he continued in his jovial tone. "I have many eyes and ears for you, ma'am."

They walked together as Nineb gave her a surprisingly well-detailed accounting of the city's underbelly: petty crimes like theft and trespassing, as well as the more violent events like armed robbery and assault. Even murder, occasionally, which always got Nineb riled up.

"Today was a particular bad case, Ma'am," said Nineb. He was looking at the floor. "A body by the waste facilities. She looked eaten."

"Eaten," repeated Emma. "What do you mean?"

"Her face. Eaten off."

Emma stopped walking. "You're being serious, aren't you?"

"The police went on it. The public does not yet know, ma'am."

He said this to impress on her the exclusivity of his report; and Emma usually was impressed by how much Nineb's homeless network knew about the city. But she wasn't thinking about Nineb's report. She was thinking about William. Would he have been one of the responding officers for such a scene? She hoped he wasn't. He was moody but fragile. She didn't think it would do him any good to see something like that.

"You have that face again, ma'am."

"I'm sorry. I'm just thinking about my brother."

"You are very good sister, ma'am. I wish my daughter was like you."

"I don't think you do," she said. Then she pushed those thoughts away. "Anything else?"

"Well, actually, ma'am. There is."

Nineb rubbed the back of his neck. He looked a little hesitant. Emma sighed.

"You don't have to ask me for money, Nineb. This is a job. You're doing something invaluable for me and I am going to pay you according to that service—"

"No, it isn't that, ma'am. It isn't that."

"Well, what then?"

Nineb was looking behind him furtively. As if he was afraid of being overheard. Emma found herself feeling drawn in by his worry. Something big must have happened.

"Nineb?"

Nineb's sunken cheeks turned a little paler. "There's big doings in the city," he said in a secretive tone. "Everyone is leaving—all of my people, are leaving."

The excitement in Emma deflated: he was talking about the referendum. "Nineb, that isn't exactly a secret. I do read the news too you know. And I promise you that we're going to file a suit against the city office—"

Nineb shook his head. "It isn't just the reform, ma'am. That's old news. No, I've been hearing things. There's something else going on in this city. Something underground. I haven't heard much, though."

"Nineb, I pay _you_ to tell me about the underground."

She said this in a jesting tone, but Nineb did not laugh. Instead, his eyes darted uncertainly, and he was moving very tightly. She had never seen him like this.

They reached the steps leading up to the entrance to Wayne Enterprises. Emma was waiting for Nineb to elaborate, but he pretended to be fascinated by the giant W at the top of the skyscraper.

"Do you really work there? Underneath that sign."

Emma shook her head. "No, not right underneath it. I work a little to the left. In a corner-office."

Nineb brought his gaze back down. "Powerful business-woman. And you are what, only twenty-one?"

"It's really not what you think it is, Nineb. _You_ could work there."

It took her a moment to realize what she had just said.

"Wait. That's not what I meant, Nineb."

His blackened smile appeared again. "No worries, ma'am."

Emma searched in her bag. She brought out an envelope. "Here; for services rendered."

Nineb always looked reproachful when she extended him the envelope. And this time was no different. She held it out earnestly.

"You can't do this every time, Nineb. You earned this money. I swear if you—"

He took the envelope, but what she had taken for reproach was actually embarrassment, because he had an envelope of his own to give her.

"It isn't much," confessed Nineb. "But it is a little happy birthday from me to you. It is for your family."

She looked at the envelope in his hands for a long time. Her eyes felt a little stingy. She took the envelope.

"Nineb," she said, as a slow smile crept its way on her face. "I don't know what to say—"

But before she could finish her thought, a security guard came thundering out of Wayne Enterprises. He was a thick man, with gelatinous jowls that quivered as he ran.

"Hey, you Russian prick!" the security guard pointed a hammy hand at Nineb. "I thought I told you to leave her alone! Get the hell away from her!"

Nineb jolted back. His envelope fell to the floor.

Emma turned furiously to the guard. "It's okay, Kevin. Seriously, I'm fine—and he's Assyrian, you idiot."

Kevin the security guard thrusted out his pelvis in exaggerated fashion. "Don't believe a word he says, Emma. He's a thief. I've seen him on the street before. Get away!"

Nineb stuttered. He looked to Emma for help.

"He's not hurting me, Kevin," said Emma. "He works for me."

Kevin continued coming after Nineb. "These guys spot easy marks, Emma. I'm sorry, but women usually tend to be more sympathetic. Get away from here—did you hear me? _I said move or I'll call the cops!"_

Kevin raised a black club over his head like it was a mighty hammer: Nineb scampered, leaving without his envelope. Emma turned her fury onto Kevin.

"What the hell, Kevin?"

Kevin stuck the club securely into his belt. He looked pleased with himself. "Just doing my job, Emma. That guy could have seriously hurt you, you know."

Emma fought the urge to roll her eyes. "How so?"

"Last week he nearly took a purse at knifepoint. We got it on the security camera here. He had the same Gotham Knights shirt—it's probably been months since he's showered, you know."

Kevin pointed at the security camera above the glass door to Wayne Enterprises.

Emma shook her head. "Kevin, everyone in town has that shirt. They gave them away for free when the Knights won the cup last year."

That answer only made Kevin swell with pride. He was shaking his head too understandingly, as if she were a five year old child who did not understand how the world worked. "You're just too nice, Emma. But that's why I'm here, huh? To keep the division between us and them."

Emma picked up Nineb's envelope and put it in with the envelope he had given her into her purse. Kevin held the door open for her, which forced Emma to walk across his jutting belly in order to get inside the building. He watched her walk with a strange, unsettling smile. His entire head swiveled as if on a stick.

"I'm off at five you know," he said. "Maybe you want to hang out?"

"I'm not interested, Kevin," she said in her most tone-neutral voice. "Thank you."

Kevin's eyes went narrow. "There's not that many good guys like me, Emma. As you can see."

Kevin pointed back at the street, back at Nibem. Then he hiked up his belt impressively, which was an action that unavoidably caught the attention of Emma's eye. She quickly averted her eyes. Now she disgusted more with herself than Kevin.

Unfortunately, Kevin saw the quick dart of her eyes. And his face suddenly changed, becoming more relaxed, more assured of the situation. In his mind, he had caught her looking at him, and now he was completely convinced of her interest.

"It's alright, Emma," he said in a mischievous tone. "We're both adults here."

Emma pressed the button on the elevator. She prayed it would come soon. Otherwise, the top news-story of the evening would be: Security guard punted across Gotham City.

The elevator opened. She stepped inside.

"See you around, Emma," said Kevin. He was doing his best to sound mysterious.

Emma pressed her floor level on the elevator. She leaned on the chrome handrail in the elevator. She didn't look at Kevin but through him: she was picturing the wall behind him. She said nothing.

Before the elevator closed, she was sure she saw Kevin mutter something underneath his mouth. She couldn't hear it because of the elevator ding, but she was confident it rhymed with 'twitch.'

Emma closed her eyes. She breathed to the gentle hum of the elevator's whirring. Suddenly, the elevator screeched with metal. Emma opened her eyes, searching for the noise, only to find that it came from the handrail – she was gripping it, and the metal, underneath her duress, had crumpled.

She got out on the penultimate floor and walked down the hall to her corner office. It overlooked the entirety of the Gotham financial district, and it had one hell of a view. She felt like she was supervising the entire city.

"Another beautiful day," she said, taking in the view. She hated to admit it, but she losing was the optimism battle. She always tried to see the good in people, but today the men of the world were making it exceptionally hard.

She put down her purse and slid around her seat, with her back facing the city because she was, apparently, 'easily distracted.' On her desk was a series of briefs she was expected to read for the day's meetings. The briefs weren't difficult readings, but they were _boring. _There was nothing even remotely interesting about bonds and loans and interest rates. She willed herself through an hour of reading before she pushed the briefs away and sighed. She looked around her office: Barcelona chairs, teak paneling, abstract paintings on the walls. She was clearly somebody powerful and important. But she didn't feel useful.

She opened her desk cabinet and pulled out a wafer-thin laptop. It was her fourth replacement laptop – the things were so fragile that they could always reliably break underneath her fingertips. And she didn't really type all that hard.

She typed in her passcode and opened up a folder that read "IPOs." This brought up a catalogue of scanned newspaper clippings, journal articles, soundbites, press publications, interviews, podcasts, and documentaries. And all of these information mediums, in one form or another, focused on one topic: the Dark Knight.

When she and William were children, they fell inevitably underneath the spell of the Dark Knight mythos—it happened to any child who grew up in the preschools and kindergartens of Gotham City. As children, they all took turns playing a game with one child as Batman who had to stop the rest of the 'villains.' And Emma developed clear ideas of who was 'good' and who was 'bad' according to this game: the child playing the Batman was the dark hero who always found a way against the rest of the bad guys. The Batman always did the right thing. So when the adults in Emma's life later told her the 'truth' about the Bat, claiming that he was a criminal, that he betrayed this city, she was hooked. She had to find out more about this mysterious man.

Initially, the mythology of the Bat had enthralled the both of them: Will and Emma. They begged their mother for stories about him but she refused to give them more than bread crumbs. Then they asked Uncle Clark, and he initially fed their great curiosity until Diana caught word and put a stop to it. But they were hooked, the siblings. And for the long stretching years of their childhood, the two of them stayed up well past midnight underneath their bedcovers with a flashlight combing over cheap newspapers for the Batman. The stories in those cheap papers were outrageous, and now, looking back on it, Emma laughed at how ridiculous those stories really were. But they believed them, they believed in him.

Emma clicked through her folder. William had long since lost interest in their mutual fascination with the Bat. The conspiracy theories no longer held his attention, and she no longer pressed him for his opinions on what 'really happened' twenty years ago when everything came crashing down. Now it was Emma alone who did her research. And the more digging she did into his story, the more the Dark Knight vexed her, teased her, laughed at her. His story was like a patchwork quilt that took years to stitch together, and, once seen at a distance, had no coherence, no unity to its finish. He was an enigma. A man whose moral code was as unreadable as the midnight skies that were his haunt. He spent a decade saving people, saving this city, and then in one year, he undid it all.

With that, masked heroes were banned. Their mother and Uncle Clark moved into hiding. They began to have families. They had William and Emma.

Emma suddenly felt someone watching her. She looked up from her laptop: Lucius Fox was at her doorway. He was a staple at Wayne Enterprises –a man with a head full of frizzy white hair and a leathery smile. He looked much younger than he was, which gave off the impression that he would remain with the company forever. In a way, he _was _Wayne Enterprises— he moved throughout the building quietly, wantonly, and independently. And somehow, as Emma was just now realizing, he always knew where his presence was needed – in the present case, when an employee was doing something they shouldn't.

"Emma Trevor," said Lucius in his long, soft voice. "I heard you had some 'trouble' this morning with our security."

"Did you?" she said guardedly. She exited the folder on her laptop.

"Yes, I just received a call from security that Kevin Martin saved Emma Trevor from being robbed at knifepoint on the streets of Gotham City."

Emma closed the laptop. She sank back in her chair. "Is that what you think happened?"

Lucius walked toward her desk. He was smiling. "No, I think that it was the other way around: you did Kevin Martin a favor by not knocking him into next week."

That made Emma feel a little better. Outside of her family, there were only two people who knew what she really was: one of them was her grandfather Alfred, and the other was Lucius.

Lucius came over to the side of her desk. "Reading your briefs?"

"Absolutely." She gave him an indignant expression, as if she was irritated that he should think otherwise.

He leaned against her desk and folded his arms – on anyone else, the gesture would have looked like a reprimand, but Lucius looked only amused and understanding.

"So what's on the agenda for today?" said Emma in her best casual tone.

"You tell me. Those briefs are in chronological order."

"Oh, right."

Lucius unfolded his arms. He was chuckling. "We have the meeting with the financial chief in Accounting to go over new billing procedures for our government contracts; then a table discussion with some of the board who want to discuss the new city reforms; we break for a short coffee break with Human Resources; then followed by a meeting with the _Gotham Gazette _who want a quote on our recent acquisition of the Sionis Steelmill in Old Gotham—something about the potential for a steel resurgence in the industrial sector. And then we go lunch."

"Then we go to lunch," repeated Emma. Her eyes went a little big.

"Don't be overwhelmed, Emma. All you have to do is show up and pretend like you know what you're talking about. Everyone does it."

She looked at him with a half-smile. "Really?"

Lucius nodded. "I've been doing this job for nearly forty years. Most of the stockholders and board-members are high on cocaine or opioids. This job does itself."

"That's good," she said, but the words felt empty. There was nothing good about a job that dumb rich idiots could do.

"Of course, it's not good," said Lucius. "There's nothing good about a job that any rich idiot could do. But it's the reality of what we have here. I'll push back our meeting with financial chief and let you, ah, 'refresh,' yourself with the briefs. You have twenty minutes."

"Thank you, Lucius."

At the threshold, Lucius paused again. "And you might want to consider visiting our IT department and getting a VPN for your laptop. Anybody can see what you're looking up, you know."

Emma frowned at Lucius. "You hacked my laptop?"

"Of course not. I'm given a weekly update on the internet browsing histories of this company's web servers. It's a way to make sure people aren't abusing this company's good name. Most of it is harmless like social media and whatnot, but recently we've had a slew of subscriptions to various newspaper and trade publications."

"Maybe you have some employees who want to be better informed, not influenced."

She expected Lucius to flash her another amused smile; but his face was pensive, almost regretful. "Just a suggestion," he said. Then he walked out.

Emma sat forward in her chair. She could not put it into words, but she had long suspected that Lucius always knew more than he let on. It was the way he held himself around her: a friendly patronizing attitude. Except that he never abused it, never really made her feel inferior. Sometimes Emma wondered if it was simply all in her head. It was an itch just underneath her skin that she couldn't scratch. She read her briefs, hoping to forget that knowing smile.

* * *

The day passed in a blur of boredom and monotony. She met everyone: the board members, the stockholders, the clients. Everyone looked the same: the men in the same grey suits, and the women in business skirts with some type of gold or pearl necklace hanging down their chests. Emma's job was to shadow Lucius: she sat in on boardmeetings, listened, pretended to understand what was going on and at the end, shake everyone's hand. It wasn't exactly a difficult job, but she had to fight to stay awake.

At some point, while Lucius was droning on about the homeless reforms to the dozen boardmembers, Emma found herself looking outside. The building across from the street was being remodeling with new exterior windows. About half a dozen contractors hung suspended by a scaffold attached to the side of the building. The way the scaffold moved in the wind made her uneasy, like it was unbalanced or loose from its bearings. Yet none of the contractors seemed to be aware.

"…we will of course wait to see what the City Hall says on the zoning regulations of the Avenue," said Lucius. "And if we cannot get through the clogged gears of the city council, we can adapt a 'convert and conquer' strategy: we convert the old buildings into residential and commercial spaces."

"We should have kicked all of those deadbeats out ten years ago," complained one of the boardmembers. This man had a thick flab of skin at his neck that moved when he talked. His skin was oily and sweaty, and he was rubbing his fingers together as he spoke. "All that precious real-estate depreciated. Now it all belongs to non-profits and cooperatives who are going to want to convert it into affordable housing."

"Yes, how dare they want to establish cheap apartments instead of shopping duplexes, Dreedle," muttered Lucius.

"Do we have a list of those 'holier-than-thou' companies who currently lease or own those proprieties?" said Dreedle contemptuously.

Lucius sighed. "I believe Ms. Trevor has that report. Ms. Trevor?"

But Emma was still looking out the window: the scaffolding swayed precariously in the wind, and it was a twenty-story fall.

"Ms. Trevor," insisted Lucius in clearer tone. "Mind you telling us about the report?"

"Wha—?" said Emma, turning around to the patient, expectant faces of the board. Mr. Dreedle was still rubbing his fingers, looking intently at Emma.

"A little _slow_ are we now?" said Mr. Dreedle in an obnoxiously understanding tone. His oily face was shiny underneath the lighting of the room.

"She's faster than you," murmured another boardmember – a bony, ruddy faced man whose suit seemed much too big for him. His fingers were like long spiderlegs. "At least she's pleasant to look at—you look like a melting wax figurine, Dreedle. And you have the personality of one, too."

But before Emma could snap at the men, the scaffolding was suddenly in freefall. And the dozen men on it were gesticulating madly, crying out for help. Emma pushed the boardmeeting table away. She flew out of her seat, ready to launch herself out the window.

"Emma, what are you doing—!?"

Suddenly the scaffold right itself. It was just the wind. The men weren't crying for help – they were gesturing to the operator to lower them more slowly. There was never any real danger.

And this left Emma standing in the middle of the boardroom, in a diver's position, with her legs squatted and her butt sticking out—in short, looking extremely foolish.

"Um," said Emma. She slowly stood up straight and smoothed out her skirt.

"What the hell is the matter with you?" exclaimed Dreedle, his flabby neck swinging indignantly. "You nearly gave me a heart attack!"

"Calm down," said another boardmember. This woman was white-haired with very blue eyes and hawkish features. And she was extremely thin, which only added to her bird-like appearance. "Something clearly startled the poor thing. I don't blame her. The coffee in the lobby is too strong, I keep saying."

The ruddy faced boardmember suddenly tapped the table. "Hold on a second. This table is solid metal. It must weigh at least two hundred pounds. Maybe even three hundred."

This got them all to test their weight against the steel table. It didn't budge. Then they all looked at Emma with amazement and anticipation on their faces. They were waiting for her to explain herself.

Emma gulped. "I, um, had momentum."

"Momentum," repeated Dreedle. "What hell does that mean?"

"It means I think we've gone over everything today," said Lucius all of a sudden. He was already at the front door, holding it open. "Let's break for lunch."

This was not a suggestion but a command, and the boardmembers, initially eager to hear Emma's explanation, finally gave up once it became clear that there would be no explanation. The members all slowly filed out of the room, which not due to their curiosity but to the literal reality of their age. Emma hadn't realized, up until that moment, just how old all these people were.

Suddenly the hawkish woman appeared and took Emma to the side.

"Better lay off the _snow, _my dear, if you catch my drift. It can have all sorts of jittery effects on the body. It made me spasm like an electric eel in the eighties."

Emma turned beet red. "Oh, right. I forgot about that."

"Youthful innocence," said the old lady, smiling. "I miss those days, but watch yourself, darling. It all catches up with you in the end."

The room emptied out, and only Emma and Lucius were left. Now it was perfect silence.

"In twenty minutes, they'll forget all about this and move on with the rest of their rich, stuck-up, boring lives," said Lucius. "You don't have anything to worry about, Emma."

"Other than that lady thinks I'm on cocaine."

"They'll forget that, too. All those people are a walking pharmacy, you know that."

"Right."

Lucius walked over to her. He was frowning. "I'm surprised, Emma. Last week you had quite a lot to say on the new homeless referendum. I was expecting a bigger showing from you today."

Emma stayed silent. Lucius followed her eye out the window: he saw the scaffolding. And his face slowly shifted into an expression softer.

"You have a good eye, Emma. And a better heart. But sometimes the world doesn't need saving."

"There's still bad things happening out there," said Emma. "There are several unsolved murders out there, Lucius: Two in Canary Park and the Storm drains. Today on out by the Waste facility." and the week before that, a bank robbery on the city bank."

"And what are you supposed to do about those events? Jump into a costume and stop them with your bare hands?"

"My mother did it."

"Because she _had _to, Emma. Their world was a much different place. They fought to make it better, and it is."

"A better place?" she repeated skeptically. "They're kicking out the homeless to the other side of the city, and this is a better place?"

"I didn't say it was a 'perfect' world, Emma."

"I just want to make a difference." She turned around to face him. Her eyes were hard. "I could be doing more for Gotham City than listening to boring board meetings—no offense."

Lucius chuckled. "It is boring. But I don't work here because I enjoy it, either, Emma. I wanted to be a musician."

Emma found herself laughing in disbelief.

Lucius smiled like a kid caught in trouble. "No, it's true. When I was a little boy, my grandfather had an old double bass lying around, and when I leaned that wood against my shoulder and started plucking at those strings…something just felt right."

Lucius had his hands out before him, like he was playing an imaginary bass. "In high school my family would come see me play at the local clubs. I was pretty good, too. I probably could have been a decent studio musician."

"What happened?" said Emma. But she already had a suspicion that it involved money.

Lucius's hands fell away from the imaginary strings. He dug them back into his pockets. "Responsibility," he said solemnly. "My mother was sick all her life, and my sisters couldn't support her. So, I went to engineering school. Then one thing led to another, and I ended up here."

"Do you still play?"

"No. I haven't played in years."

"Why haven't you picked it back up? You got time now, and you—"

"My wrists are bad, and I got weak fingers," said Lucius in a slightly annoyed tone. "But I don't regret what I did, Emma. I would do it again, if given the choice. And do you know why?"

He looked at her with a proud intensity. "Because people depended on me. I was the only one who could go to college. I was the only one who could help my family. It was my responsibility."

Emma looked to the floor. His gaze was overpowering. And he made good points.

Lucius's voice suddenly softened and became encouraging once more. "A CEO of a Fortune 500 company is a _powerful _position, Emma. I can't even begin to stress how much good you could do: city ordinance, political elections, international treaties—you could influence the world for yearsto come. You could make it so that the city never passes a bill like this again."

"I know," she repeated quietly. She was still looking at the floor. "I know, Lucius."

Lucius put a hand on her shoulder. He meant it as a reassuring gesture. "Wayne Enterprises is a family company," he said proudly. "A Wayne should run it."

That ticked something in Emma. She always hated that argument—her mother tried it years before.

"I'm not a Wayne, Lucius," said Emma with a little heat in her voice. "Steve Trevor is my father."

"I know, I didn't meant to . . . I just meant that this company was passed onto you and your brother.

Emma suddenly felt emboldened. She raised her eyes from the ground. "Didn't Bruce Wayne leave the running of this company to you while he went wining and dining? I've heard the stories, Lucius. About him sleeping in boardmeetings."

This time it was Lucius's turn to look at the floor. "It was more complicated than that, Emma. Your father was—"

"He's not my father," she said a little more coldly.

Lucius raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I know, I know."

Emma looked back out over the view of the city that wreaked of power. She was angry. "And if Bruce Wayne wanted me to run this company, he should have asked me himself. I didn't ask for any of this, Lucius. I didn't ask to be a . . ."

She stared at her hands. They looked perfectly ordinary. Pedicured, smooth, and feminine. But they were shaking. She felt so much electricity, so much rage, rushing through her. She was trapped. She couldn't get the energy out of her. It was going to erupt from within.

Lucius's voice was even quieter, more subdued. "I'm sorry that I made you upset, Emma. Why don't you take the rest of the day? I'll handle the rest of the agenda."

Emma shook her head. "I can't take the rest of the day, Lucius. I have to get Alfred at the airport—"

Emma's exhaled loudly: She had completely forgotten about Alfred.

"Crap. What time is it, Lucius?"

"It's 1:30."

"Shit," she hissed. "He gets in at 2."

"Oh," said Lucius. He peeked over the edge of the window to the streets below. It was jampacked. "You'd be better get going," he said matter of factly.

Emma whipped out her phone and started dialing.

Lucius frowned. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going to get a ride to the airport."

"You'll get there faster driving on your own."

"I don't have a car."

Lucius fished into his pocket. He brought out a ring of keys. "Here. Take mine."

Emma looked at the keys. She felt something sink in her stomach.

"You have your license, right?"

"Of course," lied Emma. "But I don't want to put you out, Lucius."

Lucius tossed her the keys. "I rideshare to work anyway. Say hi to Alfred for me."

Emma caught the keys. She didn't have her driver's license. She lived in Gotham City, where everything was accessible by train, cab, or trolley. Plus, she could _fly _to where she needed to be: why would she need a car?

But she was not going to tell Lucius that.

She clutched keys. She was already sweating. "Thank you, Lucius."

Lucius smiled at her again – that same knowing smile that had all sorts of secrets hidden in the contour of his lips.


	6. Chapter 5 - The Body in the Factory

Chapter 5

The three men walked alongside the facility. Cash held his hand out to the man.

"What did you say your name was again?"

McFinn eyed Cash's hand like it was slime. "I never said."

Cash was slightly amused. He dropped his hand. "Alright. What's your name, sir?"

"Jason McFinn. And I just work here, sir."

"Nobody is accusing you of anything, McFinn."

"Not yet," said McFinn. He gripped the bucket a little more securely.

The three of them headed toward the back lot. There were leaves rustling on the ground from the wind. It occurred to William how quiet it was. He peeked through a stained window. The facility was empty.

"I sent everyone home," explained McFinn. He was eyeing William now. "I didn't want them to see it. And I figured it'd be less trouble for you."

Cash nodded. "You figured right."

They reached a chain link fence. There was a motley of dirty piping and chemical tanks on the other side. McFinn brought up the ring of keys. He hesitated a moment before opening the fence.

"I'm not a man that's revolted easily, Officers, as you can tell by the smell," said McFinn. "My line of work doesn't suit the weak of stomach."

"Agreed," said William. He was beginning to feel lightheaded by the mix of chemical and waste.

"But what I saw in there. I—I can't describe it."

Cash stepped up. "You just us handle that, sir."

McFinn slowly slid the key into a lock and twisted. He pulled open the fence door and stepped aside. He set the bucket at his feet. "When you 'round the corner, she's on your right."

It was clear that McFinn was not going to go any further. William hoisted his belt and waited for Cash to take the lead. Cash, however, had different ideas.

"You're point man on this," said Cash. "Go on."

There was something unforgiving in Cash's eyes that made William wonder what happened to the lax, easy-going man he had been with earlier. But William followed the order: he was not going to cower in front of these two men. William hoisted up his belt and his courage, and he walked through the fence. Cash followed behind.

On this side of the fence there was not much to do but follow the pathway between the pipelines and water tanks. There was much steam and haze coming from the pipes. The air was harder to breathe. And it was stuffy. William felt the slick sweat developing underneath his arms, between his thighs. William inched forward suspiciously, watching his footing with extreme care. It was getting harder to see from the steam. At some point he noticed he had his hand on his gun, which made him feel a little silly because what was he going to shoot? Cash, however, did not say a word. He was perfectly silent behind William. It was unnerving.

Then the Will rounded a corner and came to a dead-end. There was nothing there.

William turned around to Cash. "Was there another way through the piping that I missed or—?"

She was lying underneath the pipes, tucked away like an unused toy underneath a bed. And she was mutilated: her torso ripped open and ragged, like something had clawed out her inner organs. Her eyes were gone, seemingly gouged out at the sockets. But the rest of her was surprisingly intact—her limbs and her clothes were undisturbed, except for all the blood. And her mouth was gaping. Like she was screaming. That's what William remembered the most: the gaping mouth and the two holes where her eyes should have been.

William stepped backwards. He hit his head quite forcibly on a pipe meter, but he didn't feel much hurt. It was an objective pain, one that he acknowledged but dismissed.

Cash saw William's reaction and so was a little better prepared when he saw the body. Cash looked at it for a long time and then shook his head, looking at his shoes. "My, Jesus, my."

"Officers?" called out McFinn's voice from the steam. "You all alright in there?"

William felt something rushing up his throat. His legs turning into jelly. He couldn't catch his breath.

"Trevor, take it easy," said Cash's faraway voice. "Just take it easy. She ain't gon' hurt you."

William bolted away. Jason McFinn was waiting on the other side of the fence, and when he saw the look on William's face, McFinn kicked out the bucket. And William, in a moment of lucidity, understood that McFinn was a very shrewd man.

William fell onto his knees and vomited his coffee. The sound of his dry heaves was the only music of that morning. He stayed like that for several seconds.

Cash came out eventually through the fence. He was still shaking his head. "This city, I swear."

McFinn suddenly produced out a towel and handed it to William. William accepted it silently. He dabbed at the corners of his mouth. That's when he noticed the specks of vomit all over McFinn's boots.

"Shit, I'm sorry, sir."

McFinn looked down at his boots. He shrugged. "Happens."

Twenty minutes later, the parking lot was swarmed with yellow tape and police units. Crime Scene Services were unloading equipment out of a van, while the men from the Coroner's office waited idly for the police to finish their investigation. Across the street, a small crowd of people looked on with curiosity. Murder always drew people's interest.

William, meanwhile, had retreated to the bathroom in McFinn's office. It was old but clean, and most importantly, private. William didn't want people to know he was shook-up and terrified. He knew that he was a rookie, but he didn't want to be known as _that _rookie.

He splashed water onto his face. He was trying to forget that girl's face: her missing eyes, her silent scream. But the more he tried not to think of her, the more clearly his mind sculpted her out of the grey matter of his memories. Now he could picture her eyebrows; they had mascara; now appeared her lips; they had purple lipstick.

He looked himself in the mirror. He suspected that he would see her face again in his sleep. That's usually how it was with him. And he was resigning himself to this reality when the bathroom door opened. A tall woman walked in. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a tight, no-nonsense ponytail. She wore a trench coat over a black pantsuit, which did nothing to conceal the black Glock at her hip. And her blue eyes, normally a watery tone, were today hardened like glacial ice. Her name was Lily Greene, and she was his commanding officer.

"Lieutenant," greeted William in a ragged voice. "I think you have the wrong bathroom."

He tried to sound at ease, but he could hear the trembling in his voice.

"Don't tell me you're falling apart on me, Trevor," she said. She leaned against the post of the doorway. "You act like you've never seen a face-less woman before."

William washed the back of his neck with water. He could see her in his periphery. She folded her arms while leaning against the post. The gesture relayed her sudden impatience.

"If you want to make detective, this is the type of shit you're going to see."

He turned the water off. Now it was a little more quiet without the noise of the running water.

"You got some cajones or not, Trevor?"

"Lieutenant," said Will in a tired, tight voice. "I'm not sure if there's one pair of cajones in this room right now."

Her face hardened immediately. She pushed off the wall and reached into her trench coat.

"You need to give a statement, Trevor. And I can't have my reputation ruined by a blabbering boy. Drink up."

She produced a flask from her coat.

"A little early in the day for the sauce, isn't it?"

She stepped a little closer to him, as if she might take a swing him.

"Right now there's a dead girl lying on the blacktop, Trevor. And there's a son of a bitch responsible for that dead girl. And every second you spend in here feeling sorry for yourself is making it harder for me—"

William took the flask irritably. The alcohol burned in his throat. He handed it back to her and dried his face on coarse paper towels until his skin was red. When he looked in the mirror, he saw a scared young man.

He threw the paper towels in the trash. "Lead the way, boss."

They stepped outside into a bedlam of movement. The CSS team was all over the body, and Jason McFinn was talking to a couple of detectives. William quickly recounted everything that had transpired, and Greene religiously wrote down everything he said onto her notebook. Cash. Meanwhile, was nowhere to be seen.

"And you think he did it?" said Greene, pointing toward McFinn.

"No," said William quickly. A little too quickly.

Greene arched an eyebrow at him. "Really?"

"It doesn't add up. Why call the cops if you did it?"

"Maybe that's what he wants you to think."

William shook his head. "I don't know. He didn't seem that type."

The shadow on Lily's face made it clear that she didn't much care for William's opinion. "Wait for me here, Trevor."

She went over and dismissed the other detectives and introduced herself to McFinn, then she began with the questioning. Her hand worked speedily on her notebook while McFinn spoke. Ten minutes later, she came back over, tucking the notebook into her pocket.

"I don't think it was him," she said lowly.

"You seem disappointed."

"I am. Because we have either a bunch of wolves on the loose, or there is a murderous cannibal running around Gotham City."

"There's been more than one?"

Greene nodded irritably. "I have two other _who-dunnits _on my rotation that match this butchery: the first is a tennis coach out in the Canary Boondocks, and the other is a forklift operator by the storm drains on the other side of Old Gotham. Both deceased were brutally mutilated and partially eaten. They fit the same profile as this poor girl. That's why I had Cash bring you to this scene. He knows about the other two. We started calling them 'wolfpack' because it looks like a wolfpack had eaten—"

William raised a hand. "I think I get it."

That girl's eyeless face appeared before him again. William closed his eyes. He tried compartmentalizing. He made a deal with himself: there would be plenty of time to be scared later. Right now, he had to focus.

When he opened his eyes, he found Greene looking at him. She had a strange look on her face, as if she was trying to do math in her head. Then she shifted her attention to the crime scene.

"I'm sorry to spring this on you like that," she said quietly. "Rook or not, it wasn't right of me. But that's what the job is often. You want to stay on for detective? You're going to see a lot more than this."

"Really?"

Greene was silent. She continued to look out on the crime scene. "No," she said finally. "This one is fucked up special."

Suddenly, Cash appeared before them. He was stirring a cup of coffee in his hands.

"What you got, Aaron?" said Greene. "And where the hell did you get that drink?"

"McFinn's office," said Cash. He kept stirring. "CSS is doing prints right now. There are no bullet fragments, shells, or powder. No murder weapon has been found. Maybe we should see if the zoo is missing a lion or pack of wolves."

"ID on the body?"

Cash shook his head. "She had no ID on her. But from the make-up on her face, the product in her hair, and the smoothness of her hands, we can confidently believe she wasn't working here_. _She's probably a university student. Or a bank teller, for all we know."

Greene exhaled forcibly. "Shit. A tennis coach, a forklift operator, and this girl."

"That's a hell of a lineup," conceded Cash. He suddenly switched his attention to William. "What about you, Rook? You look like you're thinking up a storm over there."

William shook his head. "I don't have anything."

"Bullshit."

William smiled softly: there was something about the three murders nagging at the edges of his intuition. But he didn't have enough. He had fragments, and he couldn't see the whole story from the pieces. But there was one word that kept coming to mind. Water.

"Maybe they all went fishing," said William.

Greene and Cash both looked at him as if with flat expressions. They were waiting for him to explain.

"The boondocks have pipes that feed into the estuary, and the storm drains in Old Gotham lead the runoff from the city into the rivers. Maybe they're fisherman."

"And do you see many fishes out here at the waste facility, Trainee Trevor?" asked Greene.

William's heart sank. "Right."

"Of all the ides, Trevor. You say 'fishing.'"

"Lily, c'mon," said Cash. "You remember when you first started."

"I didn't say I had anything," said William with a hint of defensiveness in his voice. "I just thought there might be a connection."

"Of course, there's a connection: they're all _dead_," spat Greene.

Greene's cellphone suddenly went off. She stepped away to take it.

Cash stirred his coffee with a sympathetic sigh. "Don't take it personally, Will. She's been on this one for weeks."

William watched Greene on her phone-call. She had the phone pressed tightly to her cheek, as if she was trying to crush the phone. She wasn't talking but listening, and her eyes were watching the crime scene as if it were miles and miles away.

Cash finally took a sip of his coffee. He made a bitter face. "Normally, all you need are two or three questions to solve a homicide case. Nine out of ten times, it's an ex-husband, a drunk uncle, a stupid bouncer. Usually men, to be honest. I don't know why. Maybe we stupider than women. But this shit with the wolves? We haven't seen anything like this in a long time."

William asked before he could stop himself. "How long?"

Greene was coming back. Her expression was hard again.

Cash gave William a look. "About twenty years."

"That was Yindel," explained Greene. "She wants a report on this, Cash."

It was clear that Greene intended for Cash to deliver the report himself.

"Let me guess Yindel's theory." Cash closed his eyes and probed mystically with his hands. "It was the Batman."

"That murderous thug is still out there, Cash," said Lily in a serious tone. She looked back at the scene. "I wouldn't be too surprised if he was involved with this."

Cash dropped his hands. It looked a pleading gesture. "Lily, you were a child when he was around. He wasn't like that. Was he an asshole? Absolutely. Did he annoy people? Yes. But he didn't _eat _people."

"And in the twenty years since the Massacre on City Hall, I made Lieutenant, whereas you're still a Sergeant, Cash," said Lily in a cold tone. "So don't tell me how to do my fucking job, Cash."

She walked away to the parking lot. Her coat billowing in a sudden gust of wind. Cash didn't look to hurt so much as disappointed. William shifted quietly in place.

"She ain't normally like that," said Cash finally. "She's a mean bitch, yeah, but she's a _good _mean bitch."

"What the hell is up with her?" said William.

"It isn't my story to tell. But between you, me, and this shitty coffee, she blames the Bat for her parent's death. They were killed went all that stuff went down between Dent and the Holiday killings."

"He killed her parents during the 'Long Halloween'?"

Cash snorted. "'The Long Halloween.' How the hell do you know about that, Trevor?"

"I read about it somewhere," said William in a throwaway tone. But this time Cash was not fooled. He was looking at William with a knowing expression.

"You read an awful lot for police, Trevor."

"So he killed them?" said William, ignoring Cash's comment.

Cash threw the empty coffee cup into the trash. "Like I said: it isn't my story to tell."

The CSS were carrying equipment back to their van, evidently having finished their preliminary forensics. Now the sports-jacketed detectives were walking over with cups of coffee in their hand, talking hurriedly to one another. The white-suited men from the Coroner's office meanwhile were still waiting crime by their van. This investigation was only getting started.

Cash, who had been watching William closely, put a hand on his shoulder. "You handled yourself well, son. Now we got to get back to Division. C'mon, lunch is on me."

"I'm not hungry," said William. That eye-less girl was coming back to him now. And he had no appetite for food. He suspected he wouldn't want to eat for a long, long time.


	7. Chapter 6 - The Accident

Chapter 6

Lucius's car was a silver Lexus with wood paneling and leather seats. The car reacted immediately to her, but Emma had the habit of pressing too hard on the gas and stomping on the brake. The result was a nauseating drive of stopping and going on the freeway to the airport. The navigator on her phone said the airport was only ten miles away, but the traffic-laden streets turned this ten-mile distance into an hour journey.

Behind her, cars honked indignantly.

"Alright, alright!" she hollered in the emptiness of her car. She applied the gas pedal. "I'm going."

The Lexus abruptly lurched forward, which forced Emma to slam on the brake before she hit the van ahead of her. The Lexus shuddered. Emma wiped her sweaty palm on her thigh.

"10 to 2, 10 to 2," she repeated to herself. Or was it 9 to 5? She kept adjusting her grip on the steering wheel: the leather was slick with sweat from her palm. She thought it would slip out of her hand.

On the dash the clock read 1:55. She was twenty minutes away from the airport. With luck, Alfred would be delayed while going through customs, and nobody would know she was late. Emma just had to stay in her lane and she would be okay. It was going to be okay.

As if on cue, a car to her right began drifting into Emma's lane. It did not use its blinkers.

Emma slammed on the gas. "Oh, the hell you don't."

Her car jerked forward, closing in the gap, and the car on the right swerved violently back into its lane. A rancor of honking followed, and Emma unleashed a torrent of curses at the opposite driver.

"What!?" she shouted at the other driver. "_You _are the one who forgot to put his lights on. That's what they are there for, you ignorant idi—!"

The Lexus suddenly jerked backward—Emma's torso snapped against her seatbelt—there was the sound of impact. A tremendous torrent of honking ensued.

Emma had rear-ended the van ahead of her. The car to her right went on ahead, honking with glee at her misfortune.

"Dammit," she hissed. She gripped the steering wheel in a vice-grip—the leather groaned in duress. She wanted to tear this car apart.

The surrounding vehicles drove even slower to get a look at the accident. Emma felt all of their eyes glued onto her person, watching her, judging her. The driver of the van ahead stepped out and hooked his hand toward the side of the freeway. He was an older man in boots, flannel shirt, and fisherman's cap.

"Alright, pulling over," she said glumly. The clock now read 2:00.

She put her blinker on, trying to move into the next lane, but the drivers weren't moving. Couldn't they see she needed to get out of the road?

Emma suddenly smacked her horn in frustration. Why was everyone so stupid?

The driver of the van saw her predicament. He extended his arms out and waded into the incoming traffic.

"Oh great," said Emma in a small voice. She knew what the man was doing. The man went about the business with a calm and perfunctory quality. It was clear he had been in a freeway collision before. He stared down the incoming traffic coolly and fully expected their cooperation—which he received, because the incoming traffic, honking indignantly, stopped before him like he was some bizarre prophet.

With the traffic tamed, the man waved hurriedly but deliberately to Emma: _this way._

Emma pulled the car to the right and made to the far end of the highway. The man directed her the whole way. Once she was on the other side, the man walked back to his van and pulled out as well. The traffic waited for him to do so—none of the drivers looked pleased, but they waited all the same. The van pulled in front of Emma on the side of the freeway.

Emma scrolled through her phone. She thought about calling Dad. But she didn't hesitated because he would, inevitably, tell Mom. And the whole point of calling Dad was so that she wouldn't have to call Mom.

She dialed on the phone. It rang for three beats until someone picked up.

"Lucius," she said tiredly. "I got in a car accident and I don't know what to do."

Lucius did not miss a beat. "Are you alright, Emma?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Do you need to go the hospital?"

"Lucius, you know I, of all people don't need to go to a hospital."

"Fair enough. The first step here is to get the other driver's license, registration, and insurance. If it's his fault, get photos, if it's your fault, also get photos."

He did not ask whether it was her fault or the other driver's fault. She was grateful for that.

"My insurance and registration are in the glove-compartment, Emma."

Emma figured that she had to tell the truth: and it was much easier since she didn't have to make eye-contact. Still, the words were like sandpaper coming out of her throat.

"I don't have my driver's license, Lucius." She closed her eyes rubbed her temples. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier."

The phone was silent. The driver of the van was looking at Emma through the windshield. He had his hands on his hips like: 'well?'

"I'll take care of this, Emma." said Lucius's voice finally. There was no anger or discipline in his voice. "Let me talk to the driver."

"How?"

"Hand the phone over to him."

Of all the things in her life, this had to be one of the more humiliating things. But she had no moral recourse: She had messed up, Lucius was going to take care of her mess, and she needed to comply with his orders. She knew it, and Lucius knew—that is why he wasn't angry with her. There was no need. She was already being punished.

Emma got out of the door. "Okay. Give me a second."

Emma approached the driver of the van with a warm smile. The driver already had his documents and license in his hand. He was an older man, but his eyes were keen underneath the brim of his fisherman's cap.

"Hello," he said in a neutral tone. He stood somewhat aloof and upright. This posture let everyone else on the freeway know who was at fault and who was not at fault for the collision.

"Hello," said Emma. She stopped a few feet away from him. "I'm sorry I didn't see you."

"So you admit it was your fault?"

"Yes, I didn't see you," she conceded. She raised the phone in her hand. "This is going to sound strange, but can you—"

The driver shook his head angrily. "Everyone your age is on their phone. You know you could _kill_ someone."

"I wasn't on my phone. But there is someone who would like to speak with you." She held out the phone again. "They'll explain everything."

The driver took one look at the phone, then the smashed in Lexus, and finally rested his eyes on Emma. He looked her up and down. Then he seemed to have come to an understanding. His lips sneered in scorn.

"I see," he said in a low voice. "The Lexus, the business skirtsuit: you're a trustfund baby? And now you want Daddy to fix it for you. Well I don't care how much money Daddy gives to the local charity or whatever. You ain't going to get out of this with your money."

There was a triumph to his diatribe. He was animated with purpose. He lifted his fisherman's cap, wiped a musty forehead, and squared the cap back on his head with a final satisfaction.

"You and me," he said, "we are going to stay right here until the authorities get here. That's the problem with you people. You think you're above us all. You think your money and your fancy cars makes you immune to the rules. But not today. Today you're gonna taste what it feels like for the rest of us."

Emma stared at the man. She thought she would scream, but instead she found herself almost chuckling—didn't this man know she shared so much of his resentment? Of course he didn't know, because to him, she was certainly one of them.

Emma held out the phone doggedly. She had to try a new tactic.

"It's my father," said Emma. "He's the one who takes care of these things."

The driver continued to look at her distrustfully. But there was a shift in his eyes; they had lost their fury. Now they were bitter and resigned.

"Alright, give it here," he said finally, as if he was expecting this all along.

He held out his hand to accept the phone. Emma placed it in his palm. The driver leaned against his van and spoke. "This is Edward Holley speaking."

Emma waited with her arms folded as the men talked. She was looking at the damage on the Lexus: a bent fender and a smashed grill. The van had taken very little of the damage.

"The young woman—your daughter, I'm guessing?—hit my van on the 5 freeway . . . no, she knows it was her fault . . . no, I already told your daughter that you can't buy me off, and . . . well I'm retired . . . get out of here, that's impossible. Wait a minute, how do you know I have American Express? How do you know that I—"

The driver suddenly raced back to the cabin of his van. He was away for another five minutes. Then he came back. He had a lost look on his face. He handed the phone to Emma.

Emma put the phone to her ear. "What happened, Lucius?"

"Everyone has a price, Emma," said Lucius in a bored tone. "We just had to reach his. Everything's taken care of. He should be getting a call from his bank at any moment—stay on the line so he takes the call."

On cue, the driver's personal phone went off. He looked at it and his eyes widened. He gulped and put the phone back into his pocket.

"When he's done, hand the phone back to him," said Lucius.

Emma handed her phone back to the driver. He took it with a much more subdued and quiet look. He listened carefully to whatever Lucius was saying.

"Alright," said the Driver. "You have my word."

He handed the phone back to Emma. He looked like he had run a marathon.

Emma pocked her phone. "Is everything okay?"

The driver looked like he himself was struggling to accept the situation. "The man on the phone—your Dad—just paid the rest of my mortgage. He wired the money into my account. Bank just confirmed it."

"So we're good here?" said Emma slowly.

The driver was looking at the Lexus like it was a thousand miles away. "Must be nice – to have a get-out-of-jail-free card. I supposed I can't blame you. I would have done the same at your age."

"This is the first time this has happened," she said honestly.

The driver looked at her. He had amused smile, but also, a tad scornful. "Sure it is."

He got back into his van. He turned the engine out and rolled down the window. "Our business is done here. I won't call insurance on you—and even if you do, I got the pictures."

"I wouldn't do that."

"I know you wouldn't. I have the pictures. But there is one more thing—Your Dad told me to tell you to call your mother."

Emma's heart sank. That was the one thing she was hoping to avoid.

The driver saw this on her face. He snorted as he put the car into gear. "Let me tell you a couple of three things: I don't care how much money you got; you can't buy family, you hear me? Don't be such a spoiled rich brat—call your mother, dammit."

He drove off. Emma walked back to the Lexus. The clock on the dash read 2:30. She sat there for a while and stewed. She hated the shame she currently felt. Her mother had so many rules and was so uptight and it infuriated Emma—she was always the one who had to control herself. Her parents let William get away with everything: he was moody, he was rude, he was arrogant, whereas Emma had to dress in heels and in expensive skirts and run the company _and _she was supposed to control herself? It was so unfair.

Emma rubbed her temples. She loved her family. She loved her mother. But they could all be too much sometimes.

Again, Emma's hands started to shake. She felt that electricity hum within her. She meditated for a few minutes. She began to feel better. And she realized, begrudgingly, she should probably call her mother and let her know what happened. It would be the responsible, adult thing to do.

Suddenly Emma's phone began to ring. It was her mother.

"Dammit," hissed Emma. Because now her mother would never believe Emma.

Emma answered the phone. "Hey, Mom. I was just going to call you and—"

"Emma," said Diana's sharp voice. "Why didn't you call me earlier?"

Emma closed her eyes. She breathed deeply.

"Lucius told me everything. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Mom. You know I am."

"I meant are you okay 'nerves-wise'?"

"Nerves-wise? I can't believe you just asked me that."

"I'm just saying a car accident can be a stressful situation, Emma. Are you sure you are—?"

"I won't be able to make it to the airport now," said Emma forcefully. "I think we might have to call a cab for Alfred."

"I already did," said Diana. "Or rather, Lucius did. He also called you a tow truck and a ride home."

"A tow truck—seriously, Mom? That will take _hours._"

"You can't drive a crashed car, Emma. And there's no use in you going to the airport if Alfred won't be there."

"That's not what I meant, Mom. I mean, I could lift this car to a body shop in ten minutes. And then I could fly to the airport—"

"_No,_" snapped Diana's voice. "I don't know how many times I've told you, Emma. But we don't do that. We are going to do this by-the-books."

"Why are you like this? Why do I have to keep hiding myself for—?"

"Because it's for your own good, Emma," said Diana heatedly. "I've told you already—the world doesn't need any more heroes. We all promised to lead normal lives."

"But _I _am not 'normal,' Mom. I'm a freaking—"

"Wait for the tow truck," said Diana impatiently. "You can hate me later. I have to finish the decorations for the party. See you at home."

"But why can't you just—!?"

Diana ended the call. Emma punched the steering wheel so hard it left a dent in the rim.

Emma watched the passing cars for a long time. There were many children with their faces pressed up against the glass looking at her. They weren't smiling or laughing. They just watched her with open, never ending eyes.

The clock read: 3:30 when the tow truck finally appeared in the rearview mirror. The tow-man was a short, pleasant-mannered man. He was putting on dirty gloves as he walked over.

"Hello, pretty lady," he said warmly. He looked over the car. "Car trouble?"

"Something like that," said Emma. She pointed to the car. "Can you help me?"

The tow-man waved a dirtied glove. "Ain't no problem, Miss. I'll have you out of here in no time." He hooked up the car to the tow machine and started hauling the car onto the bed. It was going fine until the tow jammed and made a loud whining sound.

"No worries. The crank is jammed. Easy fix."

He went over to the crank and pulled on it, hard. His face turned bright red from the stress.

"Looks like she needs a little oil grease. It'll just be a second."

He went back into the cabin of his towtruck, humming to himself.

Emma watched the crank on the tow machine. The tow-man had his back toward her while he looked for that oil grease. And she was hidden from the highway behind the body of the crashed car.

Emma stepped forward and took the crank by the hand. With the barest effort it came loose and she spun it testily a few times. She wiped the grime on her black skirt and stepped back. Nobody had seen her do it.

The tow-man came back with the grease in his hands. "Alright, pretty lady, don't worry. We're almost home free here." He carefully applied the grease to the crank and tried it again—it moved effortlessly.

"Wow, that was fast," said the tow-man. He was smiling foolishly. "I guess a little grease is all you need. You ready to go?"

Emma was still looking at the crank. Nobody had seen her do it. "Yeah, I'm ready to go."


	8. Chapter 7 - The Birthday Party

Chapter 7

Diana waited in the shadow of the front door to her home. She saw the black Bentley rolling confidently through the cul-de-sac, making its way up the hill. The sun shone brilliantly in the tinted windows, and the engine hummed kindly as the Bentley pulled into the driveway. The driver, a tall tanned woman in a suit and cap, stepped out and opened the backseat door: a wooden cane stomped out onto the pavement, followed closely by a handsomely polished shoe and tailored pantleg. From the car emerged a tall, lanky old man in a conservative suit jacket and tie. His skin was pink and wrinkly, and as he stepped out onto the driveway, his left hand instinctively shielded his eyes. With the other hand, he supported himself on a wooden cane.

"Always forget how bloody sunny it is here."

"Alfred Pennyworth," she called out. "Is that a new cane or are you just happy to see me?"

Alfred looked for a moment for the source of the voice. He split into a smile.

"Diana, my dear. How very good to see you."

The teasing flirtation evaporated once Alfred began walking. He shuffled along at a painfully slow rate, and his face winced with every step. Diana felt her heart sink.

"Are you alright, Alfred?" She rushed over and took him by the arm. "Here, let me help you inside."

"Actually, dear, I was hoping I could trouble you with my luggage? My hip is murder right now."

Diana started for the trunk of the car, but the tanned driver of the Bentley was already pulling out the luggage and closing the trunk. "Already on it, ma'am," said the woman in a thick British accent. "I can take it up to whatever room you'd like."

"Are you sure?" said Diana. The luggage looked rather heavy.

The driver pulled out the handlestrap from the luggage. "We offer a first-class service, ma'am. Where would you like this luggage?"

"The living room is fine, thank you."

"Of course, Ma'am." The driver dragged the rolling luggage and a carry-on through the front door. Diana watched with a puzzled expression, because the driver happened to be exceptionally beautiful—much too beautiful to be a chauffeur.

"I know," said Alfred. He looked at the woman fondly. "Say what you will about these American ride-share companies. They know presentation."

"Alfred, you are a pig."

"Guilty as charged," he returned with a smile.

They headed inside the home. It was peaceful and serene inside: the sun shone like a prism through the stained-glass windows, covering the entrance room in a beautiful palette of shades. They walked to the living room.

"I can order something if you'd like to eat," said Diana. "Maybe you want to sleep upstairs?"

"Eventually," said Alfred. "But first I'd like to hear all about the family. Where is Emma? I was expecting her at the airport."

"She got into a car accident on the freeway an hour ago—she's completely fine, don't worry. But she didn't speak to me when she got home. I think she went running."

"And Master William?"

"Working."

She helped Alfred into a handsome arm chair by the fireplace. He sat down and leaned his cane against the armrest. He looked absolutely exhausted.

"You rest easy now, Alfred. I'll be right back with some tea. Two sugars and milk?"

Alfred groaned in relief. "That sounds heavenly right now, Diana. First-class notwithstanding, American Air travel has not yet mastered the delicacy of a proper cup of Earl Grey."

"I'll be right back."

Alfred fibbed with his cane. "And pour yourself a cup as well, Diana. I want to hear all about the mischief these children are causing."

Diana missed a step while walking. "What mischief?"

"Don't look so horrified, my dear. In all families exists tension between the children and the parents. You mustn't be hard on yourself."

Diana sighed. "I know, I'm not complaining. I just want your return to be as peaceful as possible."

"I've had nothing but peace for the past decade back in London. I could use a little excitement in my life."

Diana set out a ceramic kettle to boil in the kitchen. She had an instant brewer in a cabinet, but she wanted to make it the old-fashioned way for Alfred. For a few minutes it was silent in the house, and then Alfred called out from the living room.

"How is Steve? And your newest son, David?"

Diana put two mugs on the counter. "David is with Steve. I think they went out to get some supplies for the party."

"Must be nice, to have a little one again."

"By 'nice' do you mean tiring and time-consuming?" laughed Diana.

"How are the siblings taking it?"

"Emma loves her baby brother, whereas William is, well . . ."

"Moody?" offered Alfred.

What came to Diana's mind was _'annoying,' _but she very well couldn't say that about her son. It made her feel shameful.

"He's a mad scientist," said Diana finally. It was something Steve had once said about William. "He's a genius, but he's hard on people."

The kettle started to whistle. Diana poured the hot water into two mugs.

"And how is the family taking to his newest profession?"

She brought back two steaming mugs into the living room. She placed one mug on the stand beside Alfred, and she took the other one in her own hand. The mug was mildly hot, and it felt good in her palms.

Alfred bowed his head. "Thank you, my dear."

For a moment they were politely sipping. Alfred slowly set his mug down on a nightstand and said. "Well?"

Diana frowned. "Well what?"

"You didn't answer the question."

"Yes, I did."

Alfred's smile had too much understanding in it.

"I'm very proud of him," she said quickly. It sounded defensive and rehearsed.

He shifted slightly in his seat, like he was careful with his wording. Diana had forgotten how perceptive he was.

"You're his mother, it's only natural you're concerned, Diana. A police officer is a dangerous career, no matter how safe Gotham is now. And he's not special like his sister, is he?"

"William is a wonderful son, Alfred," she said. There was some heat in her voice. "I wouldn't want him any other way."

Alfred did not hide the hurt in his eyes. "Of course, dear. I meant no offense. But it is not lost on me that William chose a profession that could get him killed, whereas his sister, the superhuman, took the safe desk job. You must feel uneasy with that fact—that they're their own people now."

Diana lowered her tea mug onto the saucer. The gravity of Alfred's words slowly sunk in.

That sense of forebodingness from the morning followed her throughout the day, no matter how much she threw herself into the party's preparations. Her mind was on children, they were her greatest source of pride and worry. And Alfred had put into words her general sense of unease and displeasure.

"It is difficult," she admitted. "But I want them to lead the lives they want to live. As long as they are safe."

"You can't always protect them, Diana. It's foolish to think otherwise."

She brought her teacup into its saucer with a little too force. "I can protect them from anything in the world, Alfred. I'm their mother."

Alfred looked at her quietly. He looked like he wanted to argue but thought better of it.

Suddenly the front door opened and closed. Steve Trevor appeared, and he had baby David attached to his chest on a baby bjorn. They were both wearing sunglasses: Steve with a larger set of aviators, David wearing a smaller pair on his face.

Steve was carrying several pallets of grass. He was stained in soot and sweat.

"Alfred!" boomed Steve. "I'm glad to see you made it here in one piece."

Alfred's face split into a smile. "Captain Trevor, always a pleasure. And young David Trevor—a green thumb, I see."

Steve sniffed himself and grinned. "I was doing some gardening out back. The tomatoes needed pruning. And David likes watching me while I work."

"I'm sure he does," said Diana. She was not smiling.

Steve looked down at the dirty soot on his clothes. He was looking at himself with a slightly guilty expression. "There are muddy patches in the garden from the sprinkler system. I thought we agreed to fix that?"

"We did. But was it the best idea to fix that _today_? And even more—to take little David to a lumber store? Those places are a toxic heap, Steve. With all the manure and chemicals and sawdust in the air."

Diana stood up and carefully removed the sunglasses off of David, exposing the blue watery eyes underneath. David suddenly began to cry.

"He's hungry," said Steve. He unstrapped David from the bjorn.

"He's irritated," corrected Diana. "His eyes hurt from all that sawdust."

She took David into her arms and inspected him all over. He was filthy with soot and sweat.

"He needs to nap _and _take a bath. Which is really great because you know how hard it is to get him to sleep after a shower, Steve."

Steve picked up the grass pallets. "I think I'll just finish up the back."

"The guests will be here in two hours. That gives you an hour to finish up your 'project' in the back, Steve."

Steve started walking to the backyard, but his boots left large mudprints on the floor. He froze.

"Just go," said Diana. David was still crying in her arms. She was rocking him. "I'll clean up after you."

Steve ducked out without another word.

"Sometimes I think I have two little boys, Alfred," sighed Diana.

"There are worse things in the world," said Alfred.

Alfred struggled off his seat. David was starting to quiet down; his blue eyes, red from the crying, were curious and large on Alfred's person. Alfred laughed.

"A handsome boy you have here, Diana."

Diana rocked her baby in her arms. David's eyelids were now drooping. He would soon fall asleep.

"Maybe I'll shower him after his nap," said Diana. "Although I hate having him sleep in filth."

Together, they walked up the stairs. Diana supported Alfred's lower back while Alfred staggered up each step with his cane. Diana suddenly realized just how thin Alfred had become. It made her feel uneasy, but she made no mention of it. She didn't want to dwell on any more ill omens. She was already nervous enough.

* * *

The hill upon which the Trevor family lived stood over a wide area of unruly woodlands that narrowed down to a small gorge. These woodlands were steep and brambly and discouraged the average pedestrians from strolling through the area. On any given day, the area was isolated, empty, and totally off-putting.

It was the perfect place for Emma Trevor—one of the rare places she could go to be alone, and which she could flex a portion of her mighty strength.

She began at the bottom of the gorge, at the neck of the river, and started her circuit. The first thing was three miles of swimming against the current. After twenty minutes of pushing hard against the cold, aching water, she emerged at the foot of the switchbacks. This was a ten mile trek. She pounded the grassy earth with her wet soles while her arms pumped like well-oiled pistons and her cool forehead broke against the wind. The wetness from the swimming gave her focus. And she relished in the ferocity of her attack while she ran back and forth across the belly of the hill. She ran at full speed sprint – no jogging or pacekeeping. Now she was starting to feel the biting pain in her throat with every inhalation of breath.

Once she finished the switchbacks there was only one thing left: the craggy rimrock. She climbed up this exterior with only her forearms and legs, and it was though because the swimming and the sprinting had depleted her. Her legs would shake when she extended herself across the rock, and her forearms ached. She loved it.

She summited the rimrock while the sun was dipping further and further west. It felt good to sit there on the sheer drop; the sun was on her left side, warming her up, and her right side was cool with the dampness of her clothing. And it was perfectly quiet. There was nobody. She wanted to stay there for a long time, but she knew she couldn't risk the ire of her mother. Not for a third time in one day. Emma walked back home. Her clothes were damp with sweat, and her feet felt sore. It felt good.

Emma entered her home. In the living room were several cases of luggage: Alfred had already arrived. She immediately felt a pang of guilt, and she thought about racing up the stairs and apologizing to Alfred, but she figured he was resting up from the flight. Instead, she headed to the kitchen and grabbed a water bottle. The kitchen connected to the backyard patio by a sliding glass door. Emma leaned against the kitchen counter and took a long pull of water. It was nice on her throat. She watched the backyard for a moment: there were soft lights hanging from banisters; the stereo system hung hidden in the garden; trays were laid out on a banquet table and a cocktail bar sat in the corner of the patio.

Dad came around the side of the patio. He was pushing a wheelbarrow. And he was filthy with dirt. Emma opened the sliding door.

"Hey Dad, what's up with the wheelbarrow?"

Steve's face split into a smile when he saw his daughter. He pulled out a shovel from the wheelbarrow.

"Hey babe, back from running?"

Emma came to the edge of the patio.

"What are you doing?"

"Just some last-minute thing for the party. The sprinklers flooded this morning, which made the grass muddy. I thought it might dry out by the evening, but evidently not."

Steve drove the blade of the shovel into the ground. He brought out a huge chunk of muddy soil and tossed it into the wheelbarrow. Then he grabbed a bag of soil and poured it into the ground. Now there was a patch of dry, uneven soil. He grabbed a pallet of grass and set it down over the new soil.

"You do realize that the party starts in forty minutes, right Dad?"

Steve wiped his hand on his shirt. He was sweaty and filthy. "Yeah, I'm almost done."

Emma looked at the dozen pallets of grass lying next to the wheelbarrow. She laughed. "No, you're really not."

She went to the woodshed and found the other shovel. She didn't bother with gloves because her clothes were already filthy. She stood next to her dad and struck the shovel into the ground and pulled. She hardly made a sound.

"I'll dig, you lay down the new soil and grass. Deal?"

"You should start getting ready, babe," said Steve. But his conspiratorial eyes were alive and moving. He stopped shoveling and did as she told.

Emma worked down the line with her shovel while Steve came up beside her, pouring dry soil into the gaping trench she left behind.

"So how was work, babe?"

"Fascinating." She uprooted a swampy mesh of root and sediment and dumped it into the wheelbarrow. "We talked about interest loans, I think."

Steve poured the soil in measuredly. "You know I may not know as many languages as your mother, but I am fluent in sarcasm."

Emma dug into the ground again. "I'm just not supposed to be behind a desk, is all I'm saying, Dad. You're in the Airforce, you know what I mean."

"I haven't flown in years, Emma. I've ridden a desk ever since you and your brother were born." He wiped his forehead. He opened another bag of soil.

"Right now," said Steve, as he poured in the soil, "you're young, and you're in a hurry to figure it out. But the world isn't supposed to be figured out. There's something you can't understand until you've lived – and that just takes time, Emma."

"So am I supposed to just wait and waste these years of my life?"

"That depends on what you mean by 'waste,' doesn't it?"

They put the shovels and wheelbarrow to the side. They started laying down the pallets of grass. "When I was your age, all I thought about was my career. I thought I was going to break all the company records. But then your mother came along, and then you and your brother. And then flying wasn't as nearly as important to me as you guys were. I wanted to watch you grow. I wanted to take you guys on roadtrips and all that."

Emma snorted. "The last time we took a family trip, William was sick from the plane, the boat, and the high altitude. I don't think we even made it a quarter way up Machu Pichu."

Steve patted down the grass fondly. "And you nearly fell of the side of the mountain, didn't you? Nearly gave your mom a heart attack."

"I would have been fine," said Emma.

Steve went to get another pallet of grass. "Yeah, you would have."

They did the rest of the work quickly and cleanly. Emma stomped on the grass pallets with the flat end of the shovel. The two of them stepped back to admire their work. The grass was smooth.

"So you're saying I should get a family? A husband?"

Steve shook his head. "No. I'm not saying that. Hell, stay single forever, as long as it makes you happy."

"What if what makes _me _happy doesn't make you guys happy? What if I want to be like Mom?"

Steve put the shovel into the wheelbarrow. He was smiling when he turned back to Emma. "I'll tell it to you how my drill sergeant once told me: there's no point in joining the navy if there's no sea. Look around here, Emma: does it looks like there's a war going on?"

"There's a lot still wrong out there, Dad. The homeless reform, the poverty rate, the crime—"

"I didn't say that there aren't bad things happening—but you, Emma Trevor, the CEO extraordinare, could fix those things. Gotham City doesn't need the daughter of Wonder Woman."

Emma wanted to reply, but before she could the screen door opened again. William stood at the threshold. His hair was wet from a shower. He was in slacks and shirt.

"I didn't know you guys were back here."

He stepped out and looked at their work. He had his hands in his pockets.

"Hey, Will." Steve waved a hand. "Don't worry about us. We're already finished here."

William wore an expression of disapproval as he looked at the two of them. "Clark and Lois are on their way."

This made Emma conscious of how dirty she and her father were, and how quickly they needed to get going. Steve came to the same conclusion.

"Will, can you clean up out here while your sister and I get ready? Just take the wheelbarrow around the side of the house. I'll empty it in the morning."

"Sure," said William. He eyed the wheelbarrow. It was filthy, and he was wearing his newest clothes. He tested the newly sodded grass with his shoes, as if he was afraid he might fall in.

"You'll be fine," teased Emma. "Are you scared of ruining your good looks?"

"Okay, Emma," said William in his neutral tone. He tried lifting the wheelbarrow and it did not budge. He planted his feet a little more securely on the grass and tried again: the barrel slowly moved, and William pushed with his entire body, his face contorting with effort, until the barrel started moving with movement.

"Let's go, babe," said Steve to Emma. "We got five minutes to get ready. The fastest showers of our lives, alright?"

Emma watched her brother struggling with the wheelbarrow. Steve was waiting for her at the screen door. He kicked off his shoes.

"You'll mom will kill us if we leave tracks," explained Steve. He stepped into the kitchen and beckoned to Emma again. "C'mon, Emma. We gotta go. Leave your shoes by the door. Have Will take them to the shed before Mom sees."

Emma felt very unsure about leaving her filthy, sweaty, smelly shoes for William to take to the woodshed. It felt demeaning. But then her mother appeared at the bottom of the stairs: she wore a midnight gown and her hair pulled back. Diana leaned into a hallway mirror to do some last minute make up but then she caught the reflection of Emma straddling the patio threshold.

"Emma Trevor, get your ass in the shower!" said Diana, whirling around. "Clark and Lois are pulling into the driveway!"

Emma hastily threw off her shoes. She raced past her mother without making eye contact- but she could feel her mother's eyes on her. Emma rounded the corner of the stairs and caught sight of the patio-threshold: William was picking up the pairs of muddy shoes. Evidently, he had heard. He looked murderous.

* * *

An hour later, the backyard patio was alive with familiar, happy faces. There were military officials from Steve's government office; industry leaders from the Wayne Enterprises board, and sprinkled about were a few of Emma's old college friends. Unsurprisingly, there was nobody from William side of things. This went unnoticed by everyone except Diana.

"Did you remember to invite your friends?" she asked William.

William sipped his water. "Oh yeah, Mom. I invited all of them."

It was difficult to know when William was telling the truth – his preferred manner of speaking was a bored scorn. Diana wanted to press the issue: she wanted to ask why her son, one of the more brilliant people at the party—arguably _the _most brilliant—could not see the sense in enjoying a party with friends?

But Diana knew better than to antagonize her son. He was like a prickly cat – he simply couldn't be bothered. So she let him have his moment of angst. He was safe, he was at the party, and for Diana, that was more than enough.

Diana hooked her arm around her son. "Thank you for letting me throw a party for you, my son."

William looked at her a little strange. "Let? Mom, I didn't let you—"

"You know what I mean." She squeezed him. "Thank you."

William's features softened, and, for a moment, there appeared the careless, endlessly curious boy he was in his childhood. He looked down at his shoes.

"I am grateful, Mom. I know how lucky I am. I just don't see the point in celebrating something I had no control over. I didn't do anything to earn a birthday. _Anyone_ can have a birthday – not everyone can earn a degree or build a company."

"But you aren't anyone, Will. You are _my _son, and my son gets a birthday party."

"But do you understand what I mean?"

Diana nodded. "I do"

Emma suddenly appeared with a glass of wine in her hand. She was smiling radiantly, wearing a violet shoulder-less dress and matching heels. There was a faint tine of purple on her lips in her smile. William watched her guardedly.

"So, how is my favorite gumshoe?" said Emma. She was smirking at William.

"I'm a trainee still, Sis. Detective is still a long way out."

"I noticed you didn't invite anyone, Will."

"Maybe you should be the Detective, then."

William left the two of them with a scowl on his face.

"Was that really necessary, Emma?" asked Diana/

Emma gleefully sipped her wine. "When are you going to get it that William isn't like us—like you, me, and Dad. He probably wishes he could be back at work."

"Speaking of work, I got a call from the office around midday. Apparently you left a meeting early after an incident with a table?"

Emma's face lost all of its glee.

"Emma, how many times do I have to tell you? You can't show people what you can do."

Emma looked ready to launch into a fiery argument, but instead she took a long sip of her wine, and placed the glass on a nearby table. Her face was thoughtful as she did this.

"You didn't, Mom," said Emma, then she turned and walked away.

"Emma, wait. I didn't mean—"

But she was gone. Both children were gone. And her third child, David, was upstairs in his crib. Diana pulled out her phone and consulted the baby-camera: she saw David's sleeping, perfect form.

So all three of her children were safe. The two eldest children hated her, but she could live with that. They were safe. That's all that mattered.

Diana picked up Emma's glass – there was still wine in it. Meanwhile the jazz music permeated the night air, as did the chorus of laughter from the guests. She drank the rest of Emma's wine: Diana was going to enjoy herself tonight.

Diana headed over to her husband. He was busy talking with a familiar couple. The woman had a large summer dress with her hand wrapped around her swollen belly; the man wore a loosely fitted jacket and trousers to cover his large frame. And he wore glasses that served absolutely no purpose.

They were listening patiently as Steve finished a joke.

". . . so the man throws down a hundred dollar bill in the toilet and says: "for twenty bucks, I won't put my hands down there. But for one-hundred and twenty bucks, I will."

All three of them erupted into laughter. Diana came around Steve's shoulder.

"Is he telling you that the joke about the contractor in the port-a-potty?"

Clark Kent, the man with the glasses and loose jacket, laughed. "Yeah, I'm guessing you've heard it before?"

"A thousand times," said Diana dully.

Lois Kent, the woman with the swollen belly, fidgeted in place. "A bit vulgar, isn't it?"

Steve shrugged. "Those are the only jokes if you're enlisted, Lois."

Diana kissed Lois and Clark on the cheeks. "Thank you both for coming. It's been so long."

"We've been busy," said Clark. He had a gentle hand around Lois. "The doctor's appointments, the parenting classes. And I've been baby-proofing the house."

"You can't baby-proof the world," said Steve. "Just remember that—it'll save you a headache."

"That's why you need to supervise children," said Diana. "Always be near them."

"Certainly not _always_," laughed Lois. She patted her belly. "You can't play mother hen forever."

"When are you expecting?" asked Steve.

"Next month. Although chances are it'll be premature—it runs in my family."

"We'll be prepared, either way," said Clark. "That's what the classes are for."

Lois looked up at Clark with a soft, tender smile. Clark returned the look. And for a moment, the couple was transported from the party.

"What do you mean?" said Diana in a high, sweet voice.

The suddenness of Diana's question broke the enamored spell. Lois looked away from Clark.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"What do you mean by 'you can't play mother hen'?"

It was clear from the puzzlement on Lois's face, and on Clark's face, that they had no idea what Diana was talking about.

But Steve remembered, and he looked at Diana with surprise and disappointment.

"I'm sorry—I had a brain freeze," said Diana all-of-a-sudden. Her tone regained its friendliness. "It was the wine."

But the damage was done. Lois's expression was working to remember the conversation. Clark's lips were moving silently. And suddenly, almost simultaneously, the two of them remembered.

"Oh, I didn't mean anything by it, Di," said Lois. "It's just something my mom used to say."

"She still says it," said Clark, backing up his wife. "We were there a few weeks ago. That's probably why it's fresh on your mind, Lois."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," said Diana. She was trying to return things back to normal. "I must have blanked out."

"It's alright, Di. You don't have to apologize."

But it was clear that something had shifted in Lois's demeanor. She was no longer participant in the conversation but a spectator. She was watching Diana from a distance. Diana felt absolutely miserable, but they were all saved from further embarrassment by the sudden warbling of Lois's belly.

"Oh," said Lois. She touched her belly. "I think someone is hungry."

"It's the calm before the storm," said Diana amusedly. "I remember those days."

"I'm sorry," said Lois earnestly. "It happens so suddenly, the cravings."

"What are you apologizing for?" said Steve. He gently took Lois by the arm. "That's what all this food is for. We have prime rib, fillet de sole, tofu, and all the mashed potatoes, green beans, and pasta salad you can eat."

Lois's eyes glazed. "God, that all sounds delicious."

"I'll bring over a fresh beer, Clark?" said Steve.

Clark nodded gratefully. Steve and Lois walked away. Diana and Clark were quiet for a second.

"You've got a beautiful family, Di," said Clark. He was looking at Steve. "I'm happy for you."

Diana knew that Clark was deliberately ignoring her outburst. She put a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Clark. For earlier."

"Sorry for what?"

"Clark, c'mon."

He chuckled. "There's nothing to forgive, Di. Don't worry."

"I'm sorry. It's just I've been so stressed lately."

"This party took some serious work, Di."

"No, it isn't that. Well, the party didn't help. But it's something else."

"What?"

"I—"

Thoughts about the past rose up like corpses in a river. And there they stayed, turning and rolling over themselves with the humor of the current. It must have been visible on her face, because Clark's expression sobered up and he was looking at the floor.

"I've been thinking about him, too."

Diana watched the party. Steve was piling food onto a plate for Lois. Emma was speaking to some college friends. William was sitting alone at a table. Drinking a glass of water.

"Do you think about him often?" said Clark. He was watching the party, too.

"Not often," she said honestly. "To be honest, I haven't thought about him in years. It's only today. This week, really."

"It makes sense. It's been all over the news. Twenty years, you know."

"What is it about the number 'twenty' that is so psychologically pleasing?"

"I don't know. Maybe twenty years is how long a child needs to become an adult."

"Is that all? Twenty years isn't enough, Clark."

"You would know," he mumbled.

She realized what he meant by that. She hugged her friend.

"You're going to be a great father, Clark. Don't worry."

Clark exhaled deeply, like a man about to jump off a cliff. She felt his chest expand.

"Any advice, Di?"

She had hundreds of pieces of advice: don't worry so much; make sure you worry enough; don't let them stay up too late; don't give them sugar after 7pm; carry baby wipes in a backpack; always carry a snack. It was overwhelming, and she did not want to cripple her friend.

"Enjoy the little moments," she said. "It passes by so quickly, you know."

Clark nodded. He kept looking around the party. "You ever think we're doing the right thing?"

"What do you mean?" she asked, although she knew perfectly well what he meant.

"The world still has crime, still has bad people, and here we are, doing nothing."

"Raising a family is not 'nothing,' Clark."

"I know," he said lowly. "It's just feels like a great big joke. A great big insult to everyone who died."

"They died so we could have a life, Clark. A _real _life."

"And I'm useless at a desk, Di. Running around the city, chasing leads. It feels like a job for somebody else."

"It's not," said Diana. She dropped the hug and straightened up. "It's your job now."

"I know, but sometimes I—

"They outlawed superheroes, Clark," she said in a final, cutting tone. "And they were right to do it, after everything that happened."

At the sound of her tone, Clark became very quiet, like a child admonished. Diana knew she had gone too far.

The party suddenly echoed with laughter: Emma was trying to pull William onto the dance floor, and William, suddenly animated like a frightened cat, was fighting with all his might to escape.

"I'm sorry again, Clark," she said after a few moments. "I swear, my emotions are so uncontrollable lately that I've—"

Without speaking, Clark took her hand and squeezed. They held that silence for a few moments, watching the party unfold. They never looked at one another.

"When you have children, everything changes. And I can't lose this. Not after everything we've already lost."

"I think I understand, Di. I do."

"Here comes Steve with your beer."

Steve was walking with two beers in his hand. He knew immediately something was off. He looked like he was going to raise a question, but Diana shook her head, and Steve understood tacitly. He put on his cheery smile and handed the beer to Clark.

"Thank you, Steve," said Clark. He flicked the cap off the bottle with a thumb.

Steve came over to Diana. "It's nearly nine, Di. Let's cut the cake?"

"Let's get some pictures with it first."

Clark quickly put his beer down. "That reminds me."

"Where are you going, Clark?"

He walked away with a mysterious smile. "To the car. I have to get something. Don't start without me, though!"


	9. Chapter 8 - The Grey Hood

Chapter 8

The birthday cake was double-decked and ornate—the first layer was chocolate, the second layer vanilla. Twenty-one candles surrounded the words _Happy Birthday, Twins! _in cursive lettering. The twins were standing behind the cake and posing the photos. Emma had her hand on William's shoulder and she morphed through an endless array of poses—from sultry to ridiculous; from swimsuit model to cross-eyed jester. William stood stiffly the entire time.

Finally, Clark appeared at the opposite side of the table. In his hands was a large, old-fashioned camera with a bulb attached to its front. He was sliding in the film.

Emma giggled on William's shoulder. "Uncle Clark, where did you get that thing?"

Clark patted his large camera. "We cleaned out the old archives of the Planet last month. This baby was sitting in the basement for years."

Lois appeared next to Clark with her smart phone. "And that baby can only take one picture-at-time. Which makes it nearly useless."

"Sometimes the old ways are the best," said Clark. He raised the camera. "Alright, guys. Get ready, one, two . . ."

"Would it kill you to smile once, Will?" asked Diana.

A wave of easy laughter echoed throughout the party. William smiled tightly.

"And three!" sang Clark.

There was a great big flash. William's began to water.

"Ah man, it went off early," groaned Clark. He got the camera ready for a second photo.

"Happens often," murmured Lois.

The party erupted again into laughter. William found himself laughing as well.

"Got it!" said Lois triumphantly. She was holding her smartphone. "It doesn't get better than a candid. Look at this."

On her photo screen were Emma and William laughing. They looked relaxed and at ease.

"Now one with the mother and father. Di, Steve, get in there."

Diana went next to William; Steve next to Emma. They had their arms around each-other.

"Hold it," commanded Clark. He peered through the view finder of his abnormally large camera. "One, two, three!"

There was a blinding flash of white light. Lois's camera snapped furiously as well.

Lois groaned. "William, you had your eyes shut."

William rubbed his eyes. They were watering from Clark's camera.

"Alright, again. On three: one, two, three—!"

William opened his eyes. For a split second, he thought he was hallucinating. There was a stranger standing in the far back of the party dressed in dark grey fatigues. A long sword hanging at their hip. Their face was shrouded by a grey hood.

"Cheese!"

William's eyes blinked from the flash. When he opened them again, the grey stranger was gone.

"William Trevor," said Lois, annoyed. "You were rubbing your eyes again."

"C'mon, Will," teased Emma. "Now that you're a cop you need to wear sunglasses all the time?"

William paid no attention to the any of them. He was looking for the grey stranger. Was he seeing things? It all happened so fast, and he was sure he had seen someone. But they were gone. Nobody moved that fast. It had to be his imagination.

"Is everything okay, Will?" said Diana all of a sudden. "You look like you've seen a—"

"I'm fine," he said. He slowly reshaped the smile onto his face. "I'm fine, Mom. Just a little worn out."

But she kept looking at him, the doubt loud on her face. She followed his eyes and looked around the backyard herself. "Okay, then," she said, rubbing his shoulder. "Do you want to cut the cake?"

The cutting of the cake brought the festivity to a winding conclusion. Slowly, the backyard emptied out as the guests thanked Steve and Diana for a great evening, wished William and Emma a happy birthday, and filed out through the screen door. Within an hour only the family remained. Diana went upstairs to check on David, who was still sleeping soundly in his crib, while Steve got a fire going in the brazier on the patio and put a circle of chairs around it. The fire was perfect counterbalance to the emerging chill of the evening—and it did get cold up there on the hill. The four of them gathered around the fire against a horizon that was Gotham City.

In that moment, in the low warm glow of the firelight, against the low conversation of the four family members, time moved like honey. The night marked both the end and the beginning of something. Diana knew it, deep down. She sipped at her wine, taking in the image of her two firstborn children and her husband, their faces cast in the soft bronze of the fire. These three people accounted for the past twenty years of her life. Now her children were adults.

Something told her that she needed to savor, husband, and save this moment. Tomorrow, things would be different. She knew it.

"…it's like that time we were at the beach," said Emma's tipsy voice. "And Will kept trying to get out of the water, but the waves kept pushing him over."

"And you just watched me twist and turn," said William. "I could have drowned, Emma."

"Oh,please. That water was knee-deep. It was funny."

"It wasn't funny at the time," conceded Steve, his face slowly splitting into a grin. "But it is sort of funny now."

Father and Daughter laughed. William felt that sides were being taken, lines in the sand written. He watched the fire. Diana came to her son's defense.

"I don't find it funny in any time," she said matter-of-factly. "I agree with William."

"What a surprise," muttered Emma.

Diana flashed a look of annoyance to her daughter. Emma pretended not to notice.

"So," said Emma, focusing on William. "Any girlfriends?"

"Not really," said William. He shifted a little because the fire was burning his leg.

"How about a fling?" continued Emma. She was relentless. "One-night stand?"

"Emma," said Diana in a warning tone.

But Emma ignored this. "You're telling me not one bombshell has tried to sweettalk her way out of a speeding ticket?"

Emma suddenly jumped to her feet, a mischievous smile on her wine-stained lips.

"Here we go," said William lowly.

Emma pushed her breasts together and made a showing of fixing her hair. "Oh, I'm sorry, Officer," she said in an annoying high-pitched voice. "I didn't realize I was speeding." Emma puckered her lips, batted her eyelashes. "Maybe you could cut me a break? And I could show you how appreciative I—"

"Is that how you got out of the car accident today?" asked William.

Emma mouth gaped like a fish. Her expression was stunned.

"Hey, c'mon, Will," said Steve in a serious tone. "You're better than that."

"Clearly," said William in a neutral, quiet tone. He was breathing hard. There was something rushing inside him. He knew he was being rotten.

Emma slowly gathered herself together. She was looking at William. "Who told you about that?"

"I didn't need anyone to tell me. Alfred got home from the airport by chauffeur service; you went running after work—which you only do if you're angry. Anyone with a brain could have figured it out."

Now Diana felt she needed to intervene. "William, don't be mean, babe."

"Mean? I thought we were being honest here? It's not my fault if she can't handle it."

"I can handle a lot more than you, baby brother," said Emma in a quiet, challenging voice.

Steve raised his hands. "Alright, that's enough, guys. Calm down."

"That's your brother, Emma," said Diana.

"Let her," said William. He felt emboldened by the fire. "It's the only thing she's good at anyway."

Emma's face twitched, as if she had been slapped. Her cheeks were tight and white.

Steve suddenly leaned forward; the bronze of the fire had hardened his features. "Will, I think you owe your sister an apology."

"Sorry," said William curtly.

"That's not what I meant, Will."

"Don't worry, Dad," said Emma. She picked up her wine glass and stormed off toward the living room.

Diana stood up to follow her daughter. "Emma, hold on."

"Di, don't," said Steve.

"She's my daughter, too, Steve," said Diana brusquely. "Maybe you forget that."

Diana left, which left Steve and Will by the fire. William watching the fire. Steve sat in his seat for a minute. He brought out two beers from the cooler and opened them. He put one into William's hand.

"Alright, partner," said Steve. "Time for you to tell me what's up with you."

William looked down the neck of the beer. "It's nothing, Dad."

"You're smart, Will. Smarter than me—but what you just did seems pretty dumb."

"It's not my fault that she can't handle it."

"I didn't say it was your fault. I'm saying that she's your family. And you only get _one _family, Will."

William sipped the beer silently. Steve talked to the fire.

"I know how brothers and sisters can be. And I know how women can be. And your sister, Will. She's got a lot on her shoulders. You shouldn't be so hard on her."

"_She _has a lot on her shoulders?" repeated William. "You let her get away with everything, Dad."

"Now you know that's not true, Will."

"It is true. Three years ago, when she was taking photos for prom by the pier, do you remember how mad she got because she got sand on her dress? She kicked a support column, Dad, and the whole pier nearly came crashing down."

"But it didn't," said Steve, slightly annoyed. "She told me what happened, and we got the harbor police to come and fix—"

"_I _was the one who called the harbor police, Dad. And then she got mad at me for being a 'tattle-tale."

William set aside his beer. It was unfinished and bitter. He never liked alcohol.

"Or how about the time she stole a case of Rye from the basement and took it to her friend's house and all her friends got really sick and _I _got the blame because I didn't do anything to stop it—as if I _could _stop her."

"How did you get the blame, Will?"

"You and Mom took away the T.V. from the living room, which meant I couldn't watch it either."

"But you don't even watch T.V.," laughed Steve, trying to steer the conversation to a more light-hearted tone. "You never have. You were the only kid I knew who preferred reading to television."

Steve said this with much pride in his voice. But William was not placated.

"That's not the point, Dad. The point is that I got punished for something she did—something I told her _not _to do, but she did it anyway. And then there was the time when we were at the airport and she insisted on bringing her—"

"My god, Will. Have you been keeping score this whole time?"

Steve was laughing, making a joke of it all. William closed his eyes. He should have known that his father would not understand. The faceless girl was on his mind again—that was going to give him nightmares for months. Maybe forever. And yet they were talking about poor Emma. What did she have to be scared of? What nightmares did she have?

"Listen, Will. I'm not saying you aren't right. You are. But try and look at it from her perspective. She's not normal, you know that, and a lot of the things she did—the prom photos at the pier, the underage drinking—that's all _normal_ teenage stuff. You see what I mean?"

"I didn't do any of those things," said William coldly, but also, with a tone of pride.

Steve rubbed his hands together. He was looking down at them. "No, you didn't."

Steve shifted in his seat: he brought his legs out, he sat up a little straighter. He had changed tactics. It was clear to William, and it annoyed him. This shift meant that the lesson—which this clearly was—was being dumbed down. But William didn't need it to be dumb downed. He got it. He understood it. He just happened to disagree with it.

"Maybe when you have a family of your own, you'll understand what I'm saying," said Steve quietly.

"Duly noted," said William, growing tired of the patronization.

"I didn't mean it like that, Will. I'm just saying that family changes you. Being a dad changes you. It's very unrewarding."

"Dad, I get it. Really. We don't have to talk about this anymore."

"Sometimes you have to be the bigger person. That's what makes a good Dad, a good brother, a good son. It means taking the unfairness and putting on a smile anyway."

The fire started to die out. Steve looked at the logs of wood; he was weighing if it was worth it to put another log. He didn't know if they'd be out much longer.

"I never asked you joined the police," said Steve, "But I have a pretty good idea why you did it."

Steve's face softened with dying of the fire. The soft flame added contours and long dark shadows that blurred his features. "But you don't have to do it alone, William. You have a family. And when it comes down to it, that'll be the source of your greatest strength. You're a smart boy, so you know that your mother and I might not be here forever—well, certainly not _me_."

Steve's face suddenly turned mischievous. He swung his beer between his thumb, forefinger, and middle finger. "Did I ever tell you how I asked out your mother?"

William shook his head. Steve twisted the beer between his fingers. The beer bottle caught the dying fire in the reflection.

"I was at the Canary Club for a wine-and-dine affair with bigwigs. Your mother was there representing Wayne Enterprises, which I didn't know at the time. So she's sitting at a table talking with maybe half a dozen business leaders. But they all looked bored. Everyone on their phones, everyone talking but not really saying anything. Halfway through the entrée, I caught her looking at me from across the room, and she smiled at me. It was the most devastating smile in the world, Will. I knew I had to go and say hello."

"Did you?"

"Yeah but I was nervous as hell," laughed Steve. "When I stood up, my legs felt like jelly, I was trembling, and I wanted to go to the bathroom _really _badly. But I couldn't retreat, I knew that enough. I had already made my decision. So I headed straight for her table. She noticed me coming over, and she was smirking." Steve suddenly smiled like an eight-year old boy. "Unfortunately, the Canary Club is a dark-lit restaurant, and I didn't see the bar stools between our tables. I fell over on my face, in front of the entire restaurant."

"I hit my head pretty hard on the stool. And I was unconscious for a few seconds. But when I woke up, there was your beautiful mother standing over me. She was holding a napkin on my bleeding forehead. And I told your mom: 'sorry about that, I was on my way to speak to a pretty lady, and I fell head over heels for her.'"

The corners of William's lips turned upward. "And what did everyone say?"

"Everyone was laughing. Hell, I probably looked like biggest fool in Gotham City that night. But it didn't matter to your mom—she liked it. She always said she liked my confidence."

"It did take a lot of guts," said William. "I'm not sure if I would have done that."

"I know. But that's how you know it's the right moment—when you _don't _want to do it. You have to try, that's the whole point. It might not go the way you thought it would, but that's okay. You can live with that. What's important is that you try_._"

The fire ebbed away. The two of them were dark silhouettes. The red embers curled in the bottom of the brazier.

"Time to pack it in, no?" Steve's silhouette got to its feet. "Let's put the food away. We don't want any coyotes coming after the catering. The rest we can leave for tomorrow."

They scattered the ash of the fire and carried the catering back into the kitchen. When William stepped through the screen door with the final tray of food in his arms, the two women appeared at the threshold of the kitchen.

"Oh, Will," said Diana. "You should have left those. I was going to do them."

Steve walked in behind William with a tray of his own. "Don't worry about it, Will and I got the dishes. Go put up your feet, Di."

"Leave those for tomorrow," insisted Diana. "It's their birthday."

"Let me just soak the chafing dishes," said Steve. "They'll be murder tomorrow trying to get the stains out."

"Do you guys want help?" said Emma sullenly.

William was looking down at the dishes. "I think Dad and I got it."

But Emma was already coming around the side of the island. She picked up a dish and started washing. William moved a little to the side to give her space.

Steve very slyly nudged William under the kitchen island—it was a gesture of approval.

Suddenly the doorbell rang. Twice.

"Somebody probably forgot their jacket or something," said Steve. He was scrubbing the chafing dish in the sink. "Will, go check who it is."

William dried his hands and walked out of the kitchen. Behind him, Emma muttered. "I'm sorry for earlier, Dad."

William went to the front door. Through the panel of stained glass on the door he discerned an obscure silhouette. William put his hand on the door knob. Now that he was closer, the silhouette looked a little gray.

The doorbell rang again.

William had his hand on the doorknob and he was paralyzed. He had forgotten all about thought about the grey hooded stranger from the party.

The doorbell went off again.

"Damn, Will," called out Emma from the kitchen. She had regained her cheerfulness. "Let them in while you and I are still twenty-one, huh?"

William opened the door. A tall man with a tapered moustache stood before him. He was dressed in all black and leaned on a silver cane. The man's eyes flared a brilliant emerald green.

"Good evening, William Trevor. And Happy Birthday. May we come in?"

Behind the man were a dozen similarly dressed figures. They all carried heavy duffel bags and had what looked like automatic weapons on their chests.

"Will," called out Diana's voice. "Who is it, babe?"

William's mouth went dry. He kept looking at the guns.

"I go by many names," announced the man in a loud, clear voice. His eyes gleamed as he talked. "Some call me Ra's Al Ghul, others call me monster. But tonight, you may call me 'the calm before the storm.'"


	10. Chapter 9 - The Uninvited Guests

Chapter 9

"May we come in?" repeated the man known as Ra's Al Ghul.

"No," said William stiffly. "You may not."

In one quick movement, Ra's unsheathed a silver dagger and pointed it underneath William's chin.

"I wasn't truly asking," said Ra's, smiling wolfishly.

A woman suddenly appeared beside Ra's. She was a foot shorter than Ra's, had tresses of tawny hair, and thick, sneering lips. She was aggressively beautiful—the kind of beauty that made men hesitant to approach her; and she was aware of this beauty. She stood up straight with her chest impressively out and her abdominals tucked in. A sword hung at her hip.

William exhaled very carefully: the knife was pressing uncomfortably against his artery. The woman suddenly smirked and looked at William with faint interest.

"At least this one has a modicum of self-preservation," she said in a thick accent.

"Give him time, daughter," said Ra's easily. "He may prove himself a martyr yet."

The knife disappeared from underneath William's chin. The tiniest drop of warm blood dribbled down his neck.

"Now, before any more blood is spilt," said Ra's, wiping the knife on his coat, "we need to speak with your mother. It is an emergency."

William looked between Ra's Al Ghul and his daughter. "I—I can't just let a dozen strangers into my home."

"We're not strangers, boy. Just ask the man behind you if you do not believe me—hello there, Alfred, good to see you again."

Ra's looked over William's shoulder—Alfred was standing at the top of the stairs. He was in his pajamas and leaned heavily on his cane.

"Ra's Al Ghul," said Alfred slowly. "I was wondering why I couldn't sleep tonight."

Ra's moved to step around William. William shoved his arm in the way.

The woman's eyes suddenly flashed murderously. "If you touch my father again, I will gut you like a—"

"That's quite enough, Talia," snapped Ra's. He was wearing a forced, diplomatic smile.

"William," said Alfred from the top of the stairs. "It's fine, let them in."

William kept his eyes on Ra's. "Are you serious, Alfred?"

Alfred's cane went _clop-clop-clop _on the stairs. He was coming down. "If he wanted to murder us, we might be dead already."

"Very true," conceded Ra's, grinning.

William hesitantly removed his arm. Ra's bowed most gentlemanly and walked into the home. Talia followed behind. She eyed William like a spider watching a fly.

Ra's walked toward the center of the room. He was looking at Alfred. "How have you been, my old friend? You look . . . older."

"That is the way for most folks," said Alfred. He came to the foot of the stairs and stopped. "And I'm not your friend, Ra's."

"But we dress alike," said Ra's. He held his silver cane up. "I'm not surprised you went for a wooden cane, Alfred. You were always a classical soul. Ah—here comes the rest of the family."

The sound of footsteps came hurriedly from the kitchen: Diana, Steve, and Emma appeared at the threshold. They were all wore bewilderment on their faces.

Ra's bowed deeply on his cane. "My lovely hosts, allow me to introduce myself: my name is Ra's Al Ghul. This lovely woman is my daughter, Talia Al Ghul. It is a privilege to be invited among such esteemed members of Gotham City."

Talia, who stood next to her father, did not bow. She wore her superior sneer, and although she was the shortest woman in the room, seemed to be looking down at everyone else.

Diana eyed the bowing Ra's Al Ghul with a neutral, poker face. "We didn't invite you. What are you doing in my home?"

"I beg to differ, your highness. We _were _invited—not by your explicit invitation, but by a greater and more sinister force."

"Which force is that?" said Steve in the same tone as his wife.

Ra's offered a smile that did not reach his eyes. "Destiny."

Very carefully, Ra's lowered his hand into his belt-pocket. He did this slowly because Diana was watching him like a focused tiger who needed the provocation of a sudden movement.

Ra's slowly brought out a black, matted shuriken. He held it between his forefinger and thumb.

"An old friend gave me this on a condition of friendship. If I ever needed his help, I only had to return this to him. I'm here to take him up on that account."

Ra's very slowly walked toward to Diana. He handed her the shuriken. It was cold and razor sharp in her palm.

And it was cut in the image of a bat. Diana didn't understand.

"How did you get this?" she whispered.

Alfred cleared his throat. "He's not here anymore, Ra's. He's been dead for two decades. And you know that."

"I know he's dead," said Ra's, still looking coolly at Diana. "But his allies are not."

Diana looked up from the shuriken. She met Ra's gaze. "Alfred, I assume you know who this man is?"

Alfred looked down at his cane. "He's a rogue from the old days."

"Alfred's being modest," said Ra's, grinning. "I tried to set fire to this city. A certain Dark Knight stopped me."

Emma, who had been standing there silently, suddenly twitched. Ra's noticed this and suddenly new purpose sprang up in his demeanor.

"Emma Trevor, my how you have grown."

The shock was clear on Emma's face; she tried to pretend it didn't surprise her, but everyone saw through this.

"You know me?" she said.

"Don't be surprised," said Ra's. "My organization keeps tabs on all the more dangerous beings on Earth—but besides that, you are almost like family. You and your brother."

"Ra's," said Alfred suddenly and angrily. "I'm warning you."

"Be still, old man," laughed Talia.

Diana, who up to this point was focused solely on Ra's, shifted her attention onto Talia. She didn't like this lean, puckered-lip woman. But there was something familiar about her. Something that made Diana feel like she had already met her.

Talia smiled. She was reading Diana's expression.

"I was wondering when you'd put it together."

"You're the driver," said Diana in a flat tone. "You drove Alfred here. You put his luggage in my home."

Alfred looked at Talia. His mouth opened into a surprised _ah._

Talia smirked. "Nobody notices the help, eh? We've been watching you and your family all week. I was there in New Gotham when your son found the body; and when your daughter crashed her car on the freeway."

Emma and William both exchanged quiet looks with one another.

"Are you threatening my family?" said Diana in a venomous whisper.

Talia's beautiful features suddenly contorted with vicious, ugly disdain.

"Relax," said Ra's quickly. He stepped physically between the two women, breaking the line of sight. "We're not here to threaten anyone. Nor are we here to spoil secrets."

He said this last part to Alfred and Diana. This was not lost on the twins.

"I don't care why you are here. You have one minute to get out of my home," said Diana in her same cold, furious tone.

Talia put her hand on her sword at her hip. "Or you'll do what, my dear Princess?"

"I said enough!" snapped Ra's.

Talia's hand lingered on her sword hilt. She was watching Diana with her furious, ugly sneer. Diana returned the gaze coldly and without emotions.

"Talia," hissed Ra's. "Enough."

Talia stepped back. Her hand removed from her sword. Ra's let out a sigh of antagonized breath.

"Get out of my house," repeated Diana.

"For goodness sake, I'm trying to _help _you," said Ra's irritably. "All of you. Your family is in danger—Gotham City is in danger. We need your help. And you need ours."

"I can protect my family," said Diana coolly, skeptically. She folded her arms. "I don't need help."

"Not yet," muttered Ra's. He was leaning on his cane. His green eyes swimming with energy. "But believe me when I say there is a darker, more powerful force on the horizon. And its headed for your city. Alfred, you know me. You know I wouldn't come here unless I had no other choice."

Everyone's attention turned to Alfred—especially Diana, who was found herself more and more curious to hear whatever Ra's had to say. He had said the one thing that gouged her attention, the one thing that irritated her peace: someone wanted to hurt her family. And now she was irritated, indignant, but also, she didn't want to admit, anxious.

"I would hear him out," said Alfred finally. He was watching Ra's, and yet somehow seemed like he was directing his words to Diana. "It couldn't hurt, only help."

"Thank you, old friend," bowed Ra's. Then he turned his attention to Diana. Everyone's attention turned to Diana; the twins, Steve, and even Talia, who was watching hatefully.

"Fine," said Diana in a voice that she did not recognize. "But my children will take no part in this."

Behind her, William and Emma exploded into protest.

"Mom, there's no way you can tell me that I can't—"

"Mom, I'm a _police officer, _if there's anyone qualified to—"

"I said no!" said Diana, whirling around to face her children. She was breathing heavily. "Both of you go to your rooms. This will not concern you."

William and Emma both looked instinctively to Steve. It was the last bastion of hope. But Steve, to their dismay, quietly nodded along with Diana.

"Go on, you guys," said Steve. He was at his most serious they had ever seen. "This is way too dangerous."

Ra's suddenly coughed delicately but deliberately. "If I may interrupt, your children both possess an invaluable skill set. And seeing as they are both inaugurated adults, today being their birthday, I see no reason why they cannot make their own decisions…"

Ra's voice trailed off as Diana, very slowly, walked up to his face. He looked amused and said nothing. Talia made to cut Diana off, but Ra's held up a hand. Talia stood still; her hand went to her sword.

Diana paid Talia and her sword no attention. She kept her eyes squarely on Ra's.

"By the time your daughter draws that sword, my hands would snap your neck," said Diana.

"I believe you," said Ra's calmly.

"Then believe this." Diana leaned forward until her breath was on Ra's. "Not. My. Children."

Ra's, to his credit, never lost his amused smile. His green eyes danced.

"Very well, Mrs. Trevor. I will not involve your children."

"Get the hell away from my father," said Talia suddenly.

Diana shifted her attention onto Talia. "The same goes for you."

Talia did not smile like her father. She was hateful and scornful. Her green eyes were murderous.

Diana turned to her children. "Both of you, go upstairs and check on your little brother. I'll come get you both when it's over."

Emma looked like she wanted to continue arguing. Diana's expression became severe again.

"This isn't a game, Emma. I want you with your little brother."

Emma looked to Steve again, but he was not his playful self either. He was completely sober, and now with both parents against her, Emma conceded. She nodded most sullenly.

William, on the other hand, was expressionless.

"William," said Diana. "Did you hear what I said?"

William nodded his head. "Go upstairs, keep quiet. I got it."

Diana eyed him doubtfully. There was something slightly suspicious about his agreeableness.

William held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "This is clearly above my paygrade. I get it, Mom."

So she had one child who would listen to her. Diana nodded gratefully. "Thank you, my son. Now go, we won't be long."

The twins cast one more look at Ra's and Talia, who were watching them curiously, and then walked up the stairs. Alfred squeezed each of them on the shoulder as they walked by him.

"Wonderful children," said Ra's, after the twins left. "You two must be proud."

"Get on with it," said Diana.

I suppose I'll begin with myself. My name is not really Ra's Al Ghul. And it's not really a name—it is a title. I run a vast underground network: The League of Assassins. We are as ancient as human civilization itself, and act as a counter-balance to the natural cycle of human decadence and corruption. Whenever a city befalls into chaos and perversion, we intervene to restore the balance."

"By killing everyone and anyone," said Alfred tiredly. He walked away from the stairs and took seat in an armchair. "Then they install a new leader—typically a despot, who will ensure the League's organizational structure reproduces itself."

"Peace and justice," said Talia proudly. "By any means necessary."

Diana folded her arms. "That is not peace. That's murder."

Talia smirked again.

"We're an organization that trains outcasts, orphans, and ostracized peoples," continued Ra's. "And we train them well: once inducted into our ranks, our disciples can defeat any enemy, infiltrate any society, overthrow anygovernment. This is how your infamous Dark Knight came to be."

In all her years, Diana never asked Alfred how Bruce came to be the Dark Knight. She always assumed he had to train relentlessly for decades. He fought as well as she did, and she had a near millennium to hone her skills. And now here was the answer to her question: he was trained by an amoral elite force.

"You trained the Batman?" she asked Diana.

"Indeed. We took him in, we trained him, and the results speak for themselves. He was brilliant."

"He was a traitor," said Talia dispassionately.

"I did not say he was perfect," said Ra's.

"What do you mean he was a 'traitor'—he betrayed you?" asked Diana.

"He believed in a different standard of ethics," said Ra's. "Noble, but foolish."

Ra's did not hide his pride when talking of Bruce—it came off him naturally and easily, like a proud father. Talia, however, did not share Ra's admiration. She looked like she wanted to spit on the floor.

"We took him in like family and he repaid our kindness by burning down our headquarters," said Talia. "He left my father to die."

Ra's shook his head. "That's not exactly true, Talia. He didn't leave me to die…well, he _did, _but he knew I'd get over it."

Diana suddenly became very nervous. And Steve stepped forward, asking the question that she already knew the answer to.

"What do you mean by that?" asked Steve. "How do you 'get over' dying?"

"He's a Lazarus user," explained Diana. "They're what we call 'children of the Lazarus pits.'"

Talia suddenly lost her hateful smugness. For the first time of the night, she looked genuinely surprised.

"Very good, Your Highness," said Ra's. He smiled slowly. "I suppose the Amazons have record of us?"

"We do. But my mother told me that the Lazarus pits were all destroyed at the turn of the millennium."

"The Crusades," said Ra's. "Those barbaric Europeans destroyed everything they found in their wake—their fear of paganism, I believe."

"Sorry to slow everyone down," said Steve. "But what is a Lazarus Pit?"

"It's a substance that grants a form of immortality," said Diana. "Not unlike the immortality of the Amazons. However, Lazarus is not passive."

Steve looked even more troubled. "Meaning what?"

"Meaning we have to ingest the Lazarus every few years in order to prolong our lives," said Ra's. "Your wife, meanwhile, remains naturally age-less."

"But not deathless," said Talia. That hateful smugness had returned to her face. "An Amazon can die at a blade just as any mortal."

Diana returned the look. "Maybe you'd like to test that theory?"

"Enough," said Ra's, waving his hand impatiently. "This contest gets us nowhere."

"But you said all the pits were destroyed," said Steve. "I'm assuming you two have a secret pit?"

"Very good, Captain Trevor," said Ra's. "It produces enough Lazarus for two people, which makes it an extremely desirable and hotly contested location. Wars have been waged for it."

"The Great Wars of the last century, for example," said Talia. "The leaders of the belligerent countries were all invested in the Teutonic myths that spoke of the Lazarus pits."

"The Great Wars?" repeated Steve. "Wait a minute, you mean to tell me that World War One and Two were fought over these Lazarus Pits?"

"Indirectly," said Ra's. "Which is why we are tasked with keeping the existence and location of the Lazarus Pit a secret. If people knew about a literal fountain of youth, it would be disastrous—it _has _proven disastrous."

"Is that why you need our help?" said Diana. "Is your Lazarus Pit in danger?"

Ra's smiled bitterly. "No, it is quite safe, for now."

_For now. _Those words hung over all of them.

Ra's played with the silver handle of his cane. For the first time in the night, exhaustion robbed his features of their normal charm and cleverness. He carried a great weight on his mind, and he was contemplating how best to explain it.

"Which brings us to the point of my visit," said Ra's. He twirled his cane. "About two decades ago, we accepted a young man into our order. His name was Roland Moran. He was a brilliant student, one of my very finest. A specialist in biochemistry, he was tasked with weaponizing our league for the 21st century. But like all scientists, he had far too much ambition. He tried to synthesize our Lazarus; to make a limitless supply that could turn the tide of our war against human corruption. He said it would be like creating a superhuman race: faster, stronger, deadlier."

Talia produced a small vial from her belt: inside was a green liquid dancing about of its own energy. It whipped and slid around in mischievous fashion.

"This is our Lazarus," explained Ra's. "It replenishes our youth each time we ingest it. It enhances our speed, our reflexes, our strength. Like all medicines it has side effects: anxiety, paranoia, depression. But with intense mediation and discipline, this is negligible."

"The benefits far outweigh the negatives," said Talia. "Essentially: eternal life. And so the man who could successfully reproduce it on a mass scale would be a very rich man indeed."

"But he didn't," said Diana. She could tell where this story was turning. "Did he?"

Ra's tapped his fingers on the cane. "Obviously not. I tried to tell him of the many before him that had tried—and failed—to recreate the elixir of life: Flamel, Xu Fu, Newton. But he didn't listen. And what he did create was a monstrosity. A perversion."

Talia produced another vial from her belt. Instead of the green lively liquid, this vial was filled with a black, oily substance. It moved about the vial in violent, agitated thrusts. Like it was angry.

"This is Roland's Lazarus," said Talia. "It's about 94% as pure as ours. And like our Lazarus, it grants the user strength, speed, and durability. It will even prolong a user's youth. It's nearly identical in every way."

"Nearly," repeated Steve. The word reverberated ominously.

Talia became a tad grey in the face. "It slowly drives the user mad the longer one goes without ingesting more."

Steve frowned. "Sounds like a drug."

Ra's bowed his head. "An apt comparison. The madness is kept at bay if a user takes this new Lazarus regularly, but if enough time passes without a dose…"

Ra's produced out a series of photos held together by a rubberband. He handed them to Diana.

"As you can tell, the madness is nothing short of rabies or any other neurodegenerative diseases," said Ra's. "Cannibalism and psychosis are the two most observed results."

Diana looked down at the photos: half-eaten corpses; lifeless eyes; butchery and carnage. Steve appeared over her shoulder. He looked hard at the photos.

"My god," he whispered.

"That last photo was taken this morning," said Ra's. "Over by a waste management building in Old Gotham. The police think it's a serial killer, but we knew it was Roland's doing."

"Roland did this?" said Diana.

Talia shook her head. "Not directly. When Roland indoctrinates new recruits into his army, he promises them unlimited power, but he does not tell them the consequences. And once they're hooked onto his Lazarus, they have no choice but to follow his rule. If they do not, he discards them, and they slowly descend into madness. This is the result of that madness."

Diana handed the photos back. She didn't want to see them.

"He has an army?" said Steve. "What's the headcount?"

"His army is comprised of vagrants, homeless, and the orphaned," said Ra's. "So essentially he has an unlimited fighting force. They come to him willingly, seduced by the lure of his Lazarus. And once they're 'converted,' they are a force to be reckoned with."

"Some of our finest operatives also have taken up with Roland," said Talia disdainfully. "They believe in him. They see his serum as the answer to the world's disfunction."

"Which is?" said Diana. "What does he and his army want?"

Ra's and Talia traded a look. It seemed that the conversation finally arrived at its most dramatic point.

"He calls himself the Grey Paladin," said Ra's, smiling bitterly. "Although I like to think of him as a modern-day robin hood. He started off by attacking wealthy governments and redirecting those riches to poorer provinces. He gained quite a notoriety for his unapologetic brutality. Now he sees himself as the savior of this world. He wants to give the poor and the homeless his Lazarus and start a revolt against the wealthy: and in this new world order, money will no longer be deciding factor. It will be commitment to the greater social good."

"And they will use any means necessary to achieve it," finished Talia.

"He sounds a lot like you," said Diana.

Ra's face lost its smile. His charming slickness vanished. Now his face was stony and cold.

"We are here to _protect _mankind, not destroy it," he said in tone that matched his stony face. "If a maggoted city must fall so that a healthier country can rise from the ashes, so be it. But we always serve the greater good. We serve our fellow man."

"But Roland does not want to protect mankind," said Talia. "He wants to _change _it."

The black liquid in Talia's vial suddenly splattered across the glass. It even made a small aching, beckoning sound. Diana was under the impression that the black Lazarus was anxious to see Roland's plan through.

"So what do we do?" said Steve. He was leaning away from the black Lazarus like it might explode at any moment.

"We fight," said Talia.

Ra's pulled out a folded map from his pocket and spread it out along the living room table. "For the past five years, we have been hunting Roland and his organization down, but they can grow their numbers faster than we can destroy them. The only advantage we have is that his Lazarus is imperfect, and he needs to constantly make more of it. We've tracked him across the globe in his pursuit of the necessary chemicals. Every city he visits he performs the same three steps: he steals the various precursors he needs for his serum, he manufactures that serum on a large scale, and he recruits the city's homeless and outcasts into his organization."

"As long as he has a steady supply of his serum, he can control his followers. At first we tried to kill him and his key Generals, but they're too heavily guarded. I lost my entire fighting force trying to stop him. But now all we can do is delay him."

"How do you delay him?" asked Diana.

"We cut off his supply-line," said Talia. "It forces him to abandon and search for a new city."

"And when he leaves," said Steve slowly, "I assume he doesn't take everyone with him?"

Ra's smiled darkly. "Very good, Mr. Trevor. Yes, whenever he leaves, he also leaves his low-ranking recruits. And they, inevitably, leave a bloody trail."

Ra's unfolded another map, this one smaller and more detailed. There were three large hand-drawn circles on three areas of the map. Diana recognized it immediately.

"That's Gotham City," she said.

"And these are chemical and industrial waste factories," said Ra's. He pointed to handdrawn circles. Two of them had Xs over them. "He's already hit two of them. He only needs the last one."

"GothCorp," said Diana. It was a recently opened factory in New Gotham. There was a large outcry of rich environmentalist who didn't want a chemical plant on their side of the bridge.

"Why hasn't there been anything on the news?" said Steve.

Ra's arched an eyebrow. "And what would they say? There is no connection between a string of unrelated robberies at municipal and industrial waste plants."

"But they're not unrelated," said Steve, pointing at the map. "You just said that—"

"Because I told you about Roland," said Ra's impatiently. "As far as the city is concerned, these were forced-entry burglaries: no homicides, no loose ends, nothing."

"No other city has caught onto what he is doing," said Talia. "And the only way we can track him is by following up on the victims of his rabid followers."

"So you don't know where he is?" said Diana.

Ra's and Talia exchanged another glance. Then they were silent.

"That's impossible," said Steve. "How can you hide an army in a city? There has to be signs."

"He's very good at hiding," said Talia. "In Berlin they hid in the old bombing bunkers; in Beijing they were in an Olympic stadium. He's resourceful."

Ra's tapped his finger on the map. "But we do have one advantage: we know where he is going to be. He needs the chemicals in GothCorp to complete his serum."

"So we have to set a trap," said Diana slowly looking up from the map. "We wait for him at the chemical factory, and capture him there?"

"Yes," said Ra's. He was smiling tiredly. "Although I warn you it is easier said than done. Aside from the fact that Roland is a trained member of our League, he and his followers have been blessed by their serum. They are strong, fast, and toughto kill. They're monsters. Too far gone to be saved."

Diana slowly stood up from the map. "We don't kill people. No matter how lost they are."

Talia's smugness returned. "I thought you'd think that way. Wait until you meet one of these monsters. Wait until they stand between you and your children, and then we'll see how moral you really are."

"I have to agree with my daughter, Diana Trevor," said Ra's seriously. "You do not know these people, what they can do. One moment of hesitation can cost everything. You would be a hindrance if you kept your moral code."

Diana looked at the map. She churned over everything they had told her. She was doubtful, she was indignant, but she was also angry—that someone had come to _her _city, threatened the safety of _her _family, and now they threatened who _she _was. She didn't kill. She was no murdered.

Diana rolled her shoulders. She cracked her hands. The gears were slow to turn, but they were coming alive now; the dormant energy awakening inside her. It had been twenty years since her last fight. Twenty years since she put her life on the line. But now, it was no longer for greater truth and justice; now she put her life on the line for her children. For her family.

"You may be the Children of the Lazarus," said Diana. "But _I _am an Amazon of Themyscira. I don't kill people. I save people. And that's what I'm going to do."

"You're going to save Roland and his army?" said Talia. She looked like she was going to laugh and vomit.

"I will do what is necessary."

"A certain man once thought your way," said Ra's quietly. "And look what became of him."

Diana's eyes flared with rage at the mention of Bruce's name—Talia noticed it; she tensed up again, ready for a fight. But Ra's was unanimated. He looked somewhat apologetic.

"I'm just making a point," said Ra's. "To let you know the consequences of your thinking."

"You asked for _our _help, not the other way around," said Diana.

"Fair enough," said Ra's, although he still looked at her doubtfully.

"When will Roland strike?" said Steve. He was looking carefully at the map.

"We suspect tomorrow night," said Ra's. "He likes to be theatrical."

Diana suddenly remembered her mishap from the morning: the newspaper headlines.

"Tomorrow is the Commissioner's retirement," said Diana. "At City Hall."

"And every cop in Gotham will be at that speech," said Steve. He was shaking his head. "Son of a bitch."

Ra's rolled up the map. "Now you are starting to understand."

* * *

Directly above the living room was an attic space. It was the size of a large tent, accessible by a pull-out ladder. Both Emma and William lay inside of the attic. They were mouse-silent, careful not to move or even breathe too hard.

They had heard everything: Roland, his serum, his army, and the impending attack on GothCorp. The twins listened carefully as their mother made a promise to gather her forces and meet with Ra's and Talia tomorrow at GothCorp. Then Ra's and Talia left the home.

"The daughter is a piece of work," said Diana bitterly.

"They both are," said Steve. He rubbed his hands. "What are we doing to do?"

"I'm calling Clark tonight. I want you to gather everything you can on GothCorp from the Mayor's office. Then I want you to call your contacts at the Airforce."

"And tell them what? You heard what Ra's said."

"Tell them _something, _Steve."

"I'll see what I can do. What about the children?"

Diana suddenly looked above her—right where the twins lay. Emma and William felt the bottoms drop out of their stomachs.

"What are we going to tell them, Di?"

"Nothing, we tell them nothing, Steve. This is way over their head—it's over _my _head."

"You really think so?"

There was much weight behind that question. Diana considered it for a long time.

"I don't know," she said. "If it's true that Ra's trained this city's former protector, then they must be an impressive force."

Steve shifted in place. "It's been a long time since you spoken about…you know…him."

"I get the feeling it's just the beginning, too."

"Okay, I'll go check on the twins and David," said Steve. "Let me know if you need anything."

Steve slowly started up the stairs, and Diana retreated to the kitchen. That left living room empty.

The twins quickly backpedaled out of the attic. But there was only room for one person on the pull-out ladder.

"I'm right behind you, Emma," said William. He was deep in thought. Now he knew who was behind the three unsolved murders: they were all victims of Roland's army. But there was something else bothering him. Something about what was said downstairs that made his head itch. He thought about the scenes of Roland's victims: the waste management facility, the estuaries, and the storm drains. Why those three? What did they have in common?

"Will!" hissed Emma, pulling on the cuff of his pants. "Get down! He's coming."

Their father's booming steps were sounding closer and closer.

William snaked down the ladder without a sound. Together they snuck into David's room. He was still sound asleep. Emma went to pick up David, but William stopped her.

"Your hands. Look."

They were caked in dust from the attic. The two of them hurried into the Master bathroom to wash off. Their father's footsteps were gaining in bass and clarity outside the wall.

Emma rubbed her hands furiously with soap. William was already drying his hands. He watched the water sluice down the drain.

"Quick, dry your hands, Will."

He stared at the sink. The water made a gurgling noise as it slipped into the drain.

"Will." She pressed a towel into his arms. "Are you okay?"

William's heart was racing. He slowly dried his hands on the towel. He had figured it out.

"Emma, can I ask you a question? What does a waste facility, an estuary, and a storm drain all have in common?"

Emma looked at him incredulously. "This is the lamest joke in the world, Will."

William handed the drying cloth back to his sister. He felt electricity humming in his chest.


	11. Chapter 10 - The Calm Before the Storm

Chapter 10

William was absolutely certain he was the first one up the next morning. There was no sound of movement throughout the whole house, and as he walked down the stairs, he heard every squeak of his boots on the floor. He went into the kitchen and started making coffee. He was pouring in the grind when he saw a freshly made carafe, and he realized he was the second person up. He went to the screen door—his mother was in the backyard, dressed in a loose sweater and jeans. She wore her hair in a loose ponytail. She was cleaning up the mess they had left last night, and she cleaned with a lax, easy energy. William listened carefully—she was humming to herself.

His mother suddenly headed back inside with a large table. She carried it like a surfboard across her body. She saw him standing behind the screen door and her face ballooned pleasantly with surprise and William opened the screen door. She kissed him on the cheek as she came abreast of him.

"Good morning, my son. How did you sleep?"

"I slept fine," lied William. The truth was that he hadn't slept more than a couple of hours. His brain was rushing with too much energy. But he wasn't tired—he was excited.

"I'm glad. Did you like your party?"

"It was . . . surprising," he said.

She set the table against the kitchen wall and poured herself some coffee as well. With her back towards him, William briefly pressed his weight against the table on the kitchen wall. It wouldn't budge.

She returned to him with her coffee in hand. She watched him as she stirred.

"What's up, Will?"

"Nothing."

"You look a little quiet."

"I'm just thinking."

"About what?"

"About what happened last night."

"Brothers and sisters fight all the time, Will," said Diana good-naturedly.

"No, I mean what happened after the party. Ra's and Talia."

Her smile became strained, as if she had tasted something harsh in her coffee but did not want to reveal it.

"Forget about last night, Will. I'm taking care of it. You have nothing to worry about."

"It sounded pretty serious, Mom."

"And I told you I will take care of it."

William sipped his coffee. The skepticism was loud with the gesture. He looked at her casual clothes, the coffee in her hand, and finally on the table leaning against the kitchen wall. So this what how she was _'taking care of it'_?

Diana smiled quite pleasantly but patronizingly. "Have you ever been in a battle, Will?"

"No," he admitted, because what else could he say? His mother knew the answer already.

"Then believe me when I say that I am 'taking care of it,'" she said in a pleasant voice to match her smile. "This Ra's Al Ghul is not a problem. He's more of a nuisance, really."

William knew his mother was lying. He had heard the doubt yesterday in her voice. But this was to be expected. This is what protective mothers did: they shielded their children from scary realities. He understood that perfectly. It was patronizing but forgivable.

But William saw something else in the love residing his mother's blue eyes. It was a glassy prism warping the world around her, changing the dimension and severity of reality. She was a proud woman, a strong woman, but even proud, strong women could fall underneath spells.

William brought his coffee back down. He was beginning to understand something else.

"It sounded serious, is all," he said, watching his coffee easily. "I was even thinking of maybe telling some people at GCPD. Maybe they could help."

This was a new maneuver designed to outwit his mother. There was no way out. If she refused his offer, that meant that the situation was too dangerous for police officers—normal people, in other words—which would contradict everything she had already said.

But if she accepted his offer, then there really was no threat.

And William knew this. Diana looked at her son with a strange look. She knew it, too.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Will," she said after a brief pause. "That'll just cause unnecessary panic for something so trivial and small."

So she actually believedin what she was saying. Now he understood—the prism over his mother's eyes was worse than he thought. Her love for her children was a threat to the city. It made a battle-hardened woman into a denier. Did she really believe that Roland was no big threat? She had seen the photos from the waste facility, and Roland possessed an army—how could _that _be 'trivial and small'?

William made sure to keep the realization off his face. He finished his coffee.

"Well alright then, Mom." He set his empty mug on the kitchen island. This rounded out the conversation in a natural, easy manner. It reminded William of his mother's ponytail. "Seems like you got it under control. I'll see you tonight."

Suddenly her eyes became suspicious. "But where are you going? You don't work weekends."

"Paperwork," he said. It was a half-truth. "I have to finish it before my shift tonight. I'm working City Hall security—the Commissioner's retirement."

His mother's face fell. She had forgotten that he was a police officer. This was obvious.

"But you can't work tonight," she said. "Surely, not _tonight_."

She said 'tonight,' so as to include everything that had happened—Ra's, Roland, the army. She wanted to impress upon him the silliness, the stupidity, the _danger, _of working that night.

"Why wouldn't I?" he returned innocently. "Nothing's going to happen right? You just said."

She realized that trap he had laid out for her—he saw it as it happened. The way her eyes narrowed like the slits of a cat. Her lips twisting with displeasure.

He kissed her cheek. Her expression had not shifted.

"I'll see you tonight, Mom."

She turned from him and picked up the table and she headed for the basement. She was furious. But he didn't have time for her anger—he was angry, too. It was clear and obvious that she had forgotten he was a police officer. And she never even suspected that he might have been on call for the dead girl at the waste facility.

That's how low her expectations were of him. But he would prove her wrong. He would prove everyone wrong.

He got into his car and drove straight for Gotham Water and Power. It was located in Old Town. There was a plate mounted on a door that had the office's business hours: William had arrived not a minute after they opened. William walked in, fixed the officer's badge on his chest, and waited at the front desk. A tall skinny clerk emerged from behind a door. The clerk hadn't said one word before William announced himself as Gotham Police and put in a request for maps of the city's sewer grid.

"I want a complete accounting of the city's underbelly," said William. "Actually, make it the county. I want the boondocks past the city limits. And I'll need a consultant to ride shotgun with me to three different locations."

The clerk behind the desk looked at him with a blank stare. "You want _all_ of the maps? Do you have any idea how oldGotham City is, Officer? How deep those pipes go?"

"And I'll need a consultant," said William. He did not correct the clerk for calling him 'Officer.' He liked the way it sounded, especially after the morning conversation with his mother.

The clerk had his hair parted in vain attempt to cover his bald crown. The clerk kept running his hand over his crown, as if to check that the hair was still there. "There's nobody here on Saturdays except me, Officer."

"Well," said William.

The clerk realized what William meant. He combed his hair miserably.

They drove first to the boondocks. It was a pine forest outside of the city. The clerk sat in the passenger seat while trying to explain the sewer systems to William.

"Gotham City sits in a basin, so most of the water from the mountains moves down by gravity drains; and the waste in Gotham City is pumped out into the bay."

"How big are those pipes?"

"You mean how wide? It depends on the system. Most sewage pipes are only twelve inches, that's called lowbore sewage."

"What about the other kind?"

"Those can be pretty big—six or seven feet in diameter."

"And it's all connected?"

"What do you mean?"

"Could I get to the boondocks, from the city, via the pipes?"

"What, do you mean can a human being travel in those pipes?"

"Yes."

"No."

"Not even theoretically?"

The clerk sighed. "Yes, it's _theoretically_ possible, but it's a ridiculous proposition."

"Why?"

"_Why? _Well for starters you'd have to be able to crawl uphill—I told you, Gotham City is located in a basin, and these boondocks are above sea level. And look how long we've been driving."

"So it is possible."

The clerk looked like he wanted to laugh. "'Possible'—you're talking about superhuman strength to pull yourself up through those tunnels, Officer."

William pulled off the main road into a narrow, perpendicular dirt channel. Up ahead, a large section of the forest was cordoned off by police tape.

The clerk gulped. "I thought you said this was a consultation."

"It is," said William.

"But this is a crime scene."

William parked the car and shut off the ignition. He got out.

The body had long since been removed but there were stains of blood on the floor of the forest. It was dried and caked out from the summer sun. There were many footprints from the crime scene investigation.

The clerk stopped a few feet away from the blood. "My god, did someone die here?"

"Where are we?" said William. He was looking in the direction of Gotham City.

"I don't know—thirty miles outside of the city, I think."

"I mean on the sewage grid. Can you locate our position?"

"For what?"

"I want you to see if there's a drain, a pipe, or a manhole nearby."

"Why the hell would you want to know—?"

"Just do it."

The clerk flinched at the authority in William's voice. He went back to the car and started rifling through the scrolls of blueprints. William opened a little notebook and started taking notes.

_This was the first of the murders. And its located far outside of the city._

The clerk raised his head. "There are a few systems running through this area."

"Can you find me one?"

The clerk pointed eastward. "There should be a serviceman's access that way."

They walked in the direction for ten minutes and came upon a tall, concrete cylinder coming up out of the ground. They looked down the throat of the cylinder; there were rungs leading down to a dry bed of concrete at the bottom. There was a large channel of piping running perpendicular underneath the ground.

"These abandoned systems are supposed to have lids on them," said the Clerk. He was touching the rim of the concrete cylinder.

"Why?"

"For obvious reasons—kids go down there and get lost."

William felt around the rim of the concrete cylinder—the edge was jagged upward, as if something had been yanked off.

"Someone tore this one off," said William.

The clerk shook his head. "Probably some bum."

William looked back to the crime scene—it was a very short walk, easily doable. The clerk had a look of sudden realization.

"Wait, you think the perpetrator killed a person and then escaped via these tunnels?"

"Does it sound so ridiculous?"

"It does. There's no light down there, and I mean _no _light. And there's all sorts of rodents and spiders and who knows what else. He'd die of starvation and exposure within a week."

William wasn't listening. He was looking down the concrete cylinder. The bed of the concrete was stained with mineral deposits and it made a stamp-like image—a whorl of rust, and William looked into like a Rorscah test and he saw a familiar image in the rust. It was the shape of a Bat.

Suddenly the trees swayed with a summer wind. The sedges of the woodland rustled. There was an echoing—a curling whisper that unsettled everything for a brief moment before turning it back to a complete rest.

"Can we leave now?" said the Clerk. He was looking around uncertainly.

"Yes," said William. They started heading back to the car. The sun was a little higher on the eastside, which meant it was around 10am. The Commissioner's retirement speech was at 6pm. They still had plenty of time.

William fasted his seatbelt. "Do you like Greek food?"

The clerk looked pale in the face. He started running his hand through his hair. "What do you mean?"

William started the car. "Get on your phone and find us a good place to eat on our way back. We have two more stops to make."

* * *

Emma Trevor sat silently at the top of the stairs. Downstairs, in the kitchen, her brother and her mother were arguing.

"But you can't work tonight," she said. "Surely, not tonight."

"Why wouldn't I?" said William in an obnoxiously meek voice. "Nothing's going to happen right? You just said."

Emma watched William leave through the front door. Meanwhile, their mother went down to the basement. There were loud and volatile sounds coming from the basement—as if Diana was throwing around tables and boxes. Then Diana stormed upstairs to kitchen. She turned the gas stoves on and started cooking breakfast. Within minutes, the smell of eggs, bacon, and toast carried through the room.

Emma walked down the steps and into the kitchen. Her mother was at the stove with her back toward Emma. The hiss of the oil on the frying pan and the pop of bacon was all there was to part the silence. Emma walked silently to the coffee carafe, still hot, and poured herself a cup. Then she took out the cream and the sugar from the cabinet and refrigerator. She was the only one in the family who liked cream and sugar. Her mother said nothing the entire time.

"Good morning, Mom," said Emma finally. She put the cream back in the fridge. "Great party."

Her mother worked the frying pan with the spatula. "Emma, do you want some breakfast?"

The softness in Diana's voice was threating. As if Diana didn't really want to offer breakfast to Emma but was doing so out of cordiality.

"Sure, Mom," said Emma. "What are you making?"

"Eggs and bacon and toast," said Diana. "Your father's favorite."

"Who doesn't like eggs and bacon?" said Emma, trying to jest. But her mother did not laugh.

_Damn, _thought Emma. _Mom is really pissed off at William._

They heard David's muted wailing coming from upstairs. It sounded like had just woken up. Diana put the spatula down. "It's your brother. He's just woken up."

"Dad's upstairs," said Emma. She sipped her coffee.

Diana was coming around the kitchen island. The eggs and bacon were still cooking on the stove. "Finish cooking the breakfast, Emma?" said Diana in a tone that was not really requesting. "I'm going to go see David."

"Dad's upstairs, Mom," repeated Emma. But her mother did not listen. She walked brusquely by the kitchen island and went up the stairs. Emma turned to the hot stove. The blue-orange flame flickered underneath the curve of the frying pan. The spatula lay beside the stove.

"I don't cook, you know that, Mom," said Emma, chewing her lip. She picked up the spatula and seized the frying pan by the handle. The eggs were a thick wad of bright yellow and the bacon was crimped and shriveled on the other side of the pan. Emma pushed the spatula underneath the eggs and flipped them. The underside of the eggs was a nutty brown. Then she reached for the bacon.

The bacon popped like a gunshot and sent oil flying up at her. Emma yelped and raised her hand to shield her face, instinctively, but this upset the frying pan and sent the eggs all over the stove.

"Shit," she hissed. The eggs had fallen in between the grates of the stove-tops. She worked the spatula between the grates to fish out the eggs but the spatula's rude surface only pushed the eggs further underneath the grates. The bacon was still burning on the stove and now it was brittle black.

Emma laid out the bacon on a plate and went to the fridge. She took out the carton of eggs and went back to the stove and cracked six eggs onto the frying pan. Then she remembered about the oil and took out the bottle. She poured for as long as she had seen her mother pour olive oil into the pan. She picked up the spatula again.

The green olive oil sat on the yellow globules of yolk. And there was the underlayer of bacon gristle sitting underneath the transparent egg whites. It looked like some strange presentation on pathogens. Emma turned up the gas and worked the frying pan.

"What happened?" said Diana's voice over her shoulder.

Emma worked the eggs. "I spilled the eggs. But I have it under control."

Diana came over to Emma's side and watched silently. Her eyes went to the discarded eggs lying in the grates and to the olive oil sitting on the counter.

"Did you put olive oil into the pan?"

"Yes, Mom. I remembered."

Diana made a small disappointed sound. "The grease from the bacon acts like an oil. If we put in more oil, the eggs come out too greasy."

"Oh," said Emma. She did not look up from the frying pan. Her face felt hot, but it had nothing to do with the heat from the frying pan.

Diana took the olive oil and put it away. Then she started putting out plates on the table.

"Did you like your party yesterday?"

Emma continued to work the eggs. She pushed the shiny globules into the bacon grease. It was slowly coming together. The shiny yolk was gone as was the transparent liquid of the egg whites. Puffy wads of egg were clinging at the edges of the pan.

"I did, Mom. Thanks."

"I think someone at the party got your brother sick."

"William is sick?"

"David," said Diana. "He seemed different this morning."

"He was asleep all last night, Mom. How could he have gotten sick?"

Diana came back to look over Emma's shoulder. Emma felt like she was trying to pass some exam.

"Stir along the edge of the pan, babe. It'll stick."

"The spatula is too wide, Mom. It won't fit."

"You just have to press a little."

Emma pressed the spatula's grille into the curvature of the frying pan. The spatula missed all of the egg along the surface.

"I'll need you to babysit today, Emma."

Emma pressed the spatula uselessly. It was too wide. "I have plans, Mom. Get Alfred to do it."

"Alfred can't do it. I need you to do it."

"Why?"

"You're not pressing, Emma."

"I _am _pressing, but it just won't go. Why can't Alfred do it?"

"You know why, Emma."

The spatula snapped at the joint. The handle was in Emma's hand and the grille of the spatula was resting on the bed of eggs. Diana turned off the gas from the stove.

"I have a spare downstairs."

Emma laid down the broken handle. She picked out the grille from the eggs. Her mother left the kitchen and she was gone for a few moments. When she returned, she had a spatula loosely in her hands.

"Occupational hazard," said Diana. She placed the spatula beside Emma and picked up the broken pieces of the former. "Don't worry, babe."

"Not _my _occupation," muttered Emma.

Diana tossed the broken pieces into the trash. "What's that?"

"I said why do I have to babysit?"

"Well," began Diana, in that tone a parent uses when they are speaking to a precocious child. "Because you're my daughter, and because I asked you to do it."

"It doesn't sound like you're 'asking,' Mother."

"Okay, I'm asking now—can you babysit?"

"No. I have other plans."

"Why are you being difficult, Emma?"

"I'm not being difficult, Mom. You asked me a question, I gave you an answer."

Emma sipped her coffee. It had gone stale while she worked the eggs. The she lowered the mug to the table. "Why didn't you ask Will to babysit, Mom?"

"He has plans tonight, Emma."

"As do I."

"I can't believe this," muttered Diana. She was shaking her head most dramatically. "I'm asking my one and onlydaughter for afavor."

"You have a son, by the way—_two _of them."

"Are you really going to make me say it, Emma Trevor?"

Emma folded her arms guardedly. She leaned against the counter. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Mom."

She adopted the same tone her brother William had used earlier—that obnoxious, faux meekness. But this time Diana was ready for it.

"This family already has one sarcastic child, Emma," said Diana angrily. "We don't need two."

"Everyone always said that Will was the smart one," Emma shrugged. "I still don't know what we're talking about, you know."

"You're really going to make me say it?"

Emma stayed silent. Diana came a little closer to the table—it looked a vague threatening, challenging gesture.

"I need _you_ to take care of the family, Emma Trevor, because you're the only one who can do it."

"Because I take after you. I have your abilities."

Diana straightened up. She looked to be struggling with the words, as if they were bitter pieces of food lodged in her throat.

"Yes. That's why."

Emma laughed with her arms folded on her chest. She pushed off the counter.

"I recall the woman who didn't let me join high school track, or soccer, or volleyball, or any of the million other activities that I might have had fun in—and why? Because you didn't want the world to see me. But now? Now you're suddenly very proud to call me your daughter—now you want me to embrace that other side of me? How very convenient for you, Mom."

Diana was standing and stewing in frustration. Emma knew it.

"And another thing," she continued. "I heard you talking with William earlier. You said there was nothing to worry about. Then why are you asking me to babysit my little brother? The only reason I can think of is that there _is _a problem. And you're afraid of leaving the safety of our home in the hands of 'regular' people like Dad or Will or Alfred."

A strange exhilaration was running through Emma. She had never been so explicit with her mother. It felt good, to finally let out her voice.

"So, if you want my help, you need start trusting me more. I'm not a child anymore, Mother. I want to help you with whatever is going on."

"Absolutely out of the question," said Diana firmly.

"Then I won't help you," said Emma simply.

"By the gods, I don't know what I did to deserve this," exhaled Diana. She was looking away from Emma, looking away to some deity where she could deposit her misery. "I don't know why you're making this so difficult—I'm trying to protect the family, Emma. I'm trying to protect _you._"

"I don't 'need' protection, Mom," countered Emma. "I can handle myself—you said it yourself."

"When did I say that, Emma?"

"You just told me that you want me to protect the family—our family."

"That's a _last _resort, Emma. I didn't mean that you were ready."

"I could help you, Mom. I could help so many people. You've seen what I can do! I know how to defend myself and I could."

Diana became scornful. She held up a hand. "Now stop it, Emma. You don't _know _anything. You don't know battle formations. You don't know flanking tactics, how to beat a retreat, how to spar, how to use a sword nor a shield. You don't even know how to throw a punch – or a kick!"

Emma suddenly became red in the face. "I—I know how to throw a punch, Mom."

Diana narrowed her eyes. "Okay, throw a punch."

Emma looked around the kitchen. "Here?"

"Yes, I want you to throw a punch at my face."

"I'm not going to hit you, Mom."

"I didn't say you were going to hit me. Just throw a punch."

That prickled Emma. She balled her fingers into a fist.

"I don't want to punch my own mother, but if you keep egging me like this, then—"

In a matter-of-fact motion, Diana stepped forward and slapped Emma across the face. Emma's head whiplashed to the side. Her face stung across her jaw.

By the time Emma registered and processed the slap, the pain of the blow was secondary in Emma's consciousness. What hurt Emma immediately was the stinging humiliation. Her own mother had hit her—not punched, but _slapped. _

And Diana was bringing her hand, flattened like a spatula, for another blow.

Emma ducked the incoming slap and threw a hellish blow toward her mother's face. It was heavy handed and fisted, like a hammer being brought down. Her mother stepped around Emma and the punch sailed downwards.

Her mother came round Emma's leftside and slapped Emma's left ear with the same nippy irritation—then she moved out of the way, and Emma punched the space her mother had recently occupied. This was how it played out: Diana dodged and Emma followed her mother's movement with vicious, hammering punches. Finally Emma punched too wildly and she hit the kitchen cabinets. Wood exploded from the cabinet, as did puffs of flour and cane sugar that were sitting in the cabinet.

Emma found herself standing with her arm extended across her face, her hand in the cabinet, her face red and her lungs out of breath. Her mother was standing a few feet away, watching coolly.

"You've depended on your raw strength your whole life, Emma. So you don't know how to throw a punch. You need to draw your hips into the motion; that's why you're so slow. You've never been in a fight, so you don't know how to spot a telegraphed punch—or slap, in this case."

Emma gingerly removed her hand from the cabinet. A waterfall of cane sugar poured out from the hole. It collected on the counter like sand from an hourglass.

Diana made a 'tisk' sound. "Now look at the damage you could do, Emma. I saw in your eyes how much anger you put into that punch – imagine if that was Will? Or some other poor sparring partner? You could _kill _someone, Emma. How many times do I have to tell you?"

Emma closed her eyes. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. She was trapped in her home, suffocated by love. Anything she did was the wrong thing. Always she had to hide herself for the good of others.

The humiliation and the frustration fused together to create helplessness. Hot tears brimmed at the surface of Emma's eyelids. But she fought them off. She was furious with herself.

"Then what the hell am I supposed to do, Mom?" said Emma in a tone that was guttural in order to mask its shakiness. "You could have put me in boxing lessons, or in any martial arts class. You could have taught me to control it."

Seeing her daughter in such a hurt state evaporated all irritation and anger. What remained was gentleness and shame—Diana did not like what she did. Mothers did not hurt their daughters.

The sugar was still pouring onto the counter. And upstairs, they heard footsteps—Alfred or Steve, or maybe both, were going to come down soon.

"I'm sorry for doing that, Emma," said Diana. She didn't know whether it would be alright to caress her daughter's shoulder. "That wasn't right of me. It's just you're so headstrong. Like your Dad."

"It's alright, Mom," said Emma in that same quiet voice. She was clearly wrestling with the fact she couldn't even throw a punch.

"I'll clean all of this up, baby, okay? Don't worry."

Diana went to the corner of the kitchen and found the broom. She worked silently, and was unable to look in Emma's direction.

Emma moved away from the kitchen. She couldn't even throw a punch. She went upstairs, and with each step the thought dug deeper, and deeper, into her humiliation: not a punch. All this power, all this strength, and she couldn't control it. She went inside her room and locked the door. She looked at her room for several moments.

Someone had been in her room. She knew this because there was a package lying on her bed. It was neatly wrapped in brown paper and tied with a single string. Emma cautiously went to it and took it in her hands. It weighed virtually nothing. She pulled the string and very slowly shed the wrapping away. That's when she heard the knock on her door.

"Come in!" she said. She quickly hid the parcel underneath a pillow.

Alfred slowly opened the door. He was in a full tailored suit, his pink scalp carefully combed and his shoes shining. He was looking at her most cheerfully.

"Emma, will you join us downstairs for breakfast?"

"I already ate, Grandpa. Thanks."

"No worries. How do you like my gift?"

"I—" Emma looked underneath the pillow.

"Yes, that's from me to you. I meant to give it to you last night—but something told me to hold off for a better moment."

"What is it?"

"It's something I think might interest you. And something to jumpstart that wonderful childlike innocence I remember."

"I'm not a child anymore, Alfred."

"No, you're not, are you? You are an impressive young woman. An adult. Glad of you to remind you. Maybe you should remind everyone else."

Alfred's eyes twinkled, and Emma knew, instinctively, that he was saying one thing and meaning another. She thought about his words. He was smiling as if nothing was happening.

"Well, I won't keep your father waiting any longer," said Alfred all of a sudden. He was looking at his watch, apologizing. "He is threatening me with a hearty breakfast and I don't want to disappoint."

Alfred walked out but stopped at the door. And then he said, as an afterthought. "And try not to get too worked up, my dear. Mistakes are part of the journey. All we can do is take it on the chin."

He said this last line with the look in his eyes, as if he was speaking to her soul, and then he was gone. So he had seen what had happened in the kitchen. Emma turned back to the package and unwrapped it. Or maybe it was just a coincidence. Either way, Alfred's words buzzed in her mind.

He had given her a laminated newspaper clipping. The headline was this: _Masked Vigilante ruins police sting operation—suspects run away; several officers wounded. _Below the headline was a grainy photograph of a man in a black balaclava and climbing gear. He was on a fire-escape with several police cars underneath him. He was clearly running away, and the poor grain of the photograph only added to the amateurish quality of the masked man. Emma looked at the date. It was the first year of the Batman's appearance in Gotham City.

Emma put the laminated newspaper to the side. The rush of her mother's slap was still there. It still hurt, still stung. But so was the gradual warmth of Alfred's gift—it began at her fingertips holding the newspaper, and traveled up her arms and into her body. Slowly, the lesson took shape; it provided a bridge over the humiliation—a bridge Emma could walk from one end to the other. She could not throw a punch. She didn't know about fighting. This was fact.

She looked at the laminated newspaper: Neither did he. But he learned, through experience. He took it on the chin. And so could she.

* * *

Dusk fell upon the manor when Diana finished the cleaning. It was a good feeling—to walk through her home and take account of how well-polished, well-swept, and well-organized everything was. Now she wanted a bath—that would be the best thing after a day of cleaning. But instead of taking a bath she went upstairs to check on David. He was still sleeping. She took the baby camera in her hand and inspected it – the batteries were half-empty. Diana started looking for replacement batteries. Better to be safe than sorry—there would be no spared expense when it concerned the wellbeing of her children.

The doorbell rang. She knew who it would be—she had been expecting him.

Clark Kent, in a large trenchcoat, stood on her doorstep. He did not hide his disappointment when he laid eyes on her.

"Di, I thought we were getting ready for tonight?"

She was still in her loose sweater and jeans.

"We are," said Diana. "I'm going to change in a second into something more comfortable."

Clark stepped inside. He had his hands in his pockets, and he looked uncomfortable. Diana knew what clothes he wore underneath that coat.

"Are you really wearing it?" said Diana. She was clearly amused. "Really, Clark?"

"What?" said Clark defensively. "We're going into a field operation, Di."

"'Operation' is hardly the right word, Clark. I think you're over doing it."

Clark looked down at himself. A touch of embarrassment tinged his cheeks "I thought it was fitting. We're making a return—we should return to our old uniforms."

"We aren't returning, Clark," she said. "Heroes are not allowed anymore. Not after what happened. If we go out dressed like that, we're going to draw attention."

"So what do we do?" said Clark. He shifted uncomfortably in his trench coat. "I don't have any extra clothes."

Diana laughed. "I have some old clothes that might fit you. They're in the basement. C'mon."

They went to the basement together. Clark looked down at the steps of the basement.

"That's new," he said, pointing to the rubber grip strips on the wooden step. "Did someone slip?"

"With David and Alfred, I figured why risk it, right?" said Diana. "It's an accident waiting to happen."

They walked into the spacious center of the basement. Along the left wall was a rack with unused bicycles and fishing tackle. On the right wall was shelving with neatly organized boxes of surplus cookingware, bedsheets, and holiday decorations. These were the more eye-catching boxes of the basement: the baubles and silver bells of Christmas poking out of an open box; a ceramic jack o-lantern standing atop a crate of weed killer.

Diana sighed. "Dammit, Steve."

"What's wrong?" said Clark.

"Nothing. It's just the weed killer is supposed to be outside in the shed—with the rest of the gardening equipment."

Her old work desk covered the middle wall: the wall directly across the basement steps. She had bought the desk ten years ago for what she thought would be an excellent opportunity for woodworking. It was a massive piece of wood, and the cabinets housed all sorts of carpentry tools. But that idea lay long forgotten. Now the work desk was a glorified shelf for gallons of household cleaner, a crate of sterno cans, an old karaoke set, propane tanks, and old clothes.

Diana started removing boxes from the work desk. Clark walked around and spotted the Christmas tree.

"You have an artificial Christmas tree? What happened to the holiday spirit?"

"Do you have any idea how wasteful it is to throw away a perfectly good tree _every _year?" said Diana. "Besides, this one requires no energy, and no water. It's perfect."

Clark left the Christmas tree and approached the rack on the left wall.

"Can I borrow these?" Clark picked up a few fishingpoles. "I've always wanted to do some lake fishing. I was thinking in the Canary boondocks"

"I think those are deepsea rods, Clark. You need flyfishing rods for the boondocks."

Clark put the rods away. "Oh."

Diana found the box with the black marker on it: _Steve's clothes. _She raised the pile of clothing to her nose. "They're clean but smell stale. Let me wash these for you upstairs. We got some boots here, too."

"Why do you have so many spatulas?" said Clark. He was eyeing a cylinder of spatulas on a shelf.

"Long story," said Diana. She felt that twinge of guilt and embarrassment. "Let's go upstairs."

They headed upstairs and Diana put the clothes into the washing cycle. While they waited, Diana brought out a tray of tea and biscuits out into the living room.

"Tea?" said Clark. He was fighting an urge to chuckle. "What are you doing, Di?"

"We have some time to kill," said Diana, shrugging. "Besides, Alfred is coming home soon."

"Yeah, where is everyone?" said Clark, as if it suddenly occurred to him that other people live here.

"Steve took Alfred out for some errands, William is at work, and Emma . . . I don't know where she is."

Her voice was rough and tired. Clark sat there a little uneasily. He didn't know whether to take up this topic of conversation or ignore it.

"I brought you something," he said finally. He dug into his trenchcoat pockets and produced a box. He opened it with the same air and suspense of a proposal wedding ring. He was even grinning.

Inside the box were two tiny black beads. Diana picked one up with her forefinger and thumb. It weighed virtually nothing and she was afraid of squishing it. They were radio earpieces.

"I thought you destroyed all of our tech years ago?" she said.

"I did," he said. "They're prototype that Bruce gave us – samples, essentially."

"And they still work?" she rolled the bead skeptically.

"Yes, they do. I mean the contacts were fried and the batteries were old. I had Lucius replace both of them."

"Did you?" said Diana quietly. "He didn't mention that to me."

Clark saw the look on her face. "He's just trying to do his part, Di. We all are."

She put the bead back in the box and closed it. She didn't like that Lucius went behind her back—but a part of her knew that there was nothing to be angry about. Why was she so angry? Why did she feel betrayed?

Clark was watching her. "Are you okay, Di?"

Diana put the mug back into the saucer. "Clark, I love that you're so well-prepared. But don't you think all of this is overkill? The clothes, the earpieces, getting Lucius involved."

Clark narrowed his eyes. "Roland has an _army_, Di."

"According to a man we've never met before," she said. "An this army is comprised of what?—homeless, vagrants, and orphans? C'mon, Clark."

Clark put the box away in a subdued but guarded manner. He clearly did not think as she did. He clearly thought she was wrong.

"Don't give me that look, Clark."

"I didn't say anything, Di."

"I know. I said don't give me that look—"

She set her tea cup back in its saucer. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you. I'm just a little tense."

"A little tense," he muttered. "You look like you could take a bite out of me, Di."

"I know," she said, reflectively. Then, after a beat, she asked. "How's Lois?"

"She's back at home. She's a wreck as well," he added with a conciliatory smile.

"Yes, but she has a reason—she's expecting."

Clark put his cup and saucer on the table. It looked ridiculous but sweet—his huge, bulky fingers handling the delicate china. "It's understandable, Di. Now that we're about to be parents—I get it. I really do. That kid isn't here yet and I'm already worried and excited. I can only imagine having _three _of them."

"It is hard," she said.

"We're going to be fine, Di. Don't worry."

"It's not right of me to be like this. I understand that, Clark. But I just can't shake this feeling. It's like there's a shadow over my entire home. It came on so suddenly and violently, and everything is cast in gloom."

"What do you think is causing it?"

"It's a silly thing. It's been so long, you know."

Clark's face went sober and grey. "Is it Bruce?"

Suddenly Clark's ears perked up. He turned toward the door. "Someone is coming."

Fear and imagination conspired together in her mind. A torrent of images ran across her mind: scenes of her family's demise, the danger and the threat of something unknown but inevitable coming to hurt everything she loved. The adrenaline seized her focus, seized her motor-functions, and suddenly she was standing up, ready for a fight.

The front door opened, and there was a steady _clop clop_: Alfred appeared around the corner. He stopped and beheld the scene like a man seeing something he was not supposed to see.

"Oh—I'm sorry."

The adrenaline receded, and Diana's focus came back. The exhaustion now took its toll—it was worse than any fatigue she felt after cleaning. This exhaustion did not feel good. It did not deserve a bath. It was ugly, cold, and life-sucking.

"Alfred," said Diana. She was felt like she was swaying on her feet. "Take my chair."

Alfred and Clark exchanged a look. Then Alfred started walking very carefully. "Yes, thank you, I will."

Both men were pretending not to notice what had happened. They were pretending everything was fine, and Diana knew it. She breathed out her anxiety, her embarrassment.

"Did you talk to Emma?" said Diana in a voice she did not recognize. It sounded to be coming from another body, another mouth.

"She's on her way home," said Alfred. "She'll be here within the hour."

"Tell her to call me when she does. I need to talk to her."

"She knows, Diana. She'll be here soon," said Alfred. It was like he was speaking to a skittish child.

The drying machines suddenly beeped. Diana was grateful for the sound and she excused herself hurriedly. The clothes smelled of lavender and they were clean-warm. She worked mindlessly now, folding and pulling the clothes out. She didn't want to think—not after that adrenaline. She handed the clothes to Clark and he walked into the downstairs bathroom to get ready. Then Diana went upstairs to shower. The water was warm on her skin. She applied the concealer and then the shampoo gel, lathering herself into fresh soap. It was a good routine. She felt like she was going to work.

When she came out of the shower she was herself again. She put on calfskin boots, jeans, a cotton shirt, and a black jacket. She caught sight of herself in the mirror—it looked like she was going out for a coffee. She came downstairs and Clark was dressed very similar to her. His boots were gray, his jeans dark green, and he wore a large red flannel that made him look like an urban lumberjack. They both came into the living room.

"Is this how you two are going to fight?" said Alfred. He sipped tea most nonjudgmentally.

Diana threw him a look. "It's not a fight. We're laying a trap. Pretty routine for what we used to do. Chances are we'll both be home in time for dinner."

From her peripheries she saw Clark was looking at her again. it was that same pitying, almost too understanding look. He was weighing something, clearly.

"Where are you meeting Ra's?" asked Alfred.

"_GothCorp_," said Diana. She looked at a clock on the wall "We're supposed to be there in twenty minutes."

"Is that by taxi or by air?"

"I—"

"We're going by air," said Clark hurriedly. "Of course ,we can't do this by car."

Alfred nodded in agreement as he sipped his tea. So it was two against one—they had her outnumbered.

"Fine, we're flying," said Diana. "Are we ready to go?"

"Yes," said Clark. "I'm ready to go."

She saw the worry on Alfred—it was paternal, judgmental, and entirely patient. It was like a parent watching their child from afar, waiting for the child to make a mistake and the parent would not intervene because the lesson would then be lost. She hated this sudden reversal—_she _was the parent; and she was the warrior. And woe to a man named Roland who threatened the woman who was both warrior and parent. Now she was like the night—she was would fall upon Roland. It was simple inevitability. It was just a matter of time.


	12. Chapter 11 - The Storm

Chapter 11

The sun had set when William made to City Hall. Night had fallen, as did every possible political luminary fall upon the steps of City Hall: councilmembers, business leaders, state assemblymen, state senators, treasures and secretaries. And then there were the police guarding all of these people. Helicopters roamed overhead. SWAT officers sat among the gargoyles of the parapets and the window edges. Dozens of black, faceless SUVs jammed the main street. William found no parking, not even as a police officer. He had to park three streets away and walk through the medley of beat cops, secret servicemen, and bodyguards patrolling the adjacent blocks.

Lieutenant Greene was waiting at the bottom of the City Hall steps. She hailed him. "Trevor, about time you showed your face."

"Traffic on the main bridge," he explained.

Greene looked at his damp forehead. "Did you just shower?"

"I was taking care of a personal matter— plumbing."

They walked up the steps. William worked to keep up with Green's brisk, relentless pace. He looked around at the beefy security. "It's like Fort Knox around here."

"Most of it's just pomp to send the Commissioner off in style. But, between you and me, the deputy ops got an anonymous tip today."

William tried to look surprised. But he knew that his own father who issued that anonymous tip.

Greene narrowed her eyes. "Apparently the word came down from one of the old guard—you know, the superhumans, the Wonder Woman and the Superman? As if we need their help."

Apparently, Lily's hatred for the Batman spilled over to vigilantes in general. William stayed quiet. They walked by the police officers standing guard at the entrance of City Hall.

"You'd think this city would learn," said Greene. She was looking at the Greek columns standing at the entrance. "Twenty years to the day, and we're still depending on crooks in masks. Do you know that they had to plaster this whole exterior—all the blood," she explained bitterly.

"Do you remember any of it?"

"I was six when the Long Halloween went down, Trevor."

They walked underneath the archway of the entrance. Greene was looking at the architecture as if she could still see the blood. "Yes," she said. "I do remember."

They entered the City Hall. True to its name, a long hallway stretched ahead of them that terminated with the entrance to the large banquet room. The double doors to the banquet room were opened and there was a line of people waiting to get through the metal detectors and security station.

"C'mon," she said. "This way."

She led him through a door on the left side of the hall. It was a small room for presentations and lectures. Two dozen policemen stood patiently. They were facing a lectern. William fell in line with the two dozen. Lily went behind the lectern.

"Okay," she said in her gruff, no-nonsense tone. "There'll be twenty minutes of wining and dining before the Commissioner gives his speech. After that, there'll be some photos and handshaking, and then the Commissioner will exit the building. You all of know your assignments and your beats. We don't expect trouble, but we're prepared for it. Let's do this right, and that way everyone gets to go home to their miserable husbands and wives and children."

That drew a ripple of chuckles from the police. She tapped the lectern with her knuckles. "Let's go to work, boys and girls."

The police began to disperse with the dull sounds of movement. Lily and William headed out together. They walked past the line of people waiting to enter the banquet room and the people waiting in line looked annoyed but accepting of the situation. William knew this was one of the better perks of being police.

Now they were inside the banquet room, and there were dozens of cloth-covered tables and flower arrangements on the tables. The men were dressed in tuxedos and they shook hands and wore polite smiles and the women glided about in their gowns and held champagne in their hands and had many thoughts formulating in their eyes. But there was much laughter and easy conversation. Everyone held themselves easily, and that's how the evening went on.  
There was nothing in the air to give anyone suspicion.

Greene looked out on the grandness of the banquet room and she said, disdainfully. "I get the feeling that son of a bitch is going to show his face today."

If her obsession wasn't so all-consumingly hateful, it would have been funny. William stood next to her and observed the banquet. "I don't know, Lieutenant. He'd pick a hell of a night to pull something like that off. Every cop in the city is here."

Lily exhaled sharply. "I never said he was smart, Trevor. I said he was a son of a bitch."

She left him so brusquely that he knew he was not supposed to follow. He saw her head into the well-dressed crowd with her trenchcoat and business slacks and her hand on her firearm. She didn't give one thought to the amused looks she aroused—an average-heighted woman wearing a scornful expression, walking through a crowd of millionaires and billionaires who considered her vigilance a sweet, silly thing. She was like a search dog sniffing out a bomb on a training exercise—and all the trainers watched with adoring admiration at the dog who couldn't figure it out.

"Trevor, you forget your beat?"

Aaron Cash appeared with a coffee in hand and a large pastry in the other and from the crumbs on his uniform lapel it was his third pastry. Cash munched, sipped, and then brought the coffee back down while he waited for Trevor to explain himself.

"Sorry," said William. "I spaced out."

Cash followed William's line of sight: Lily Greene's icy blonde head bobbed up at the far end of the banquet. Cash laughed. "Ah, I see what you have your eyes on, Trevor. Let me give you some unsolicited advice. Do you know why black widows are called black _widows_? It's because they eatthe male after conjugation—see my point?"

Across the banquet, Lily Greene was like a spherical force of energy; everywhere she went, wide pools of space opened up. She was most likely searching and detaining people.

"She's my superior officer, Cash," said William dully.

Cash let out a big, fatherly laugh. "Oh, man. To be twenty-one again. When forbidden fruit entices the soul, eh?" Cash patted William on the shoulder. "C'mon, Adam. Eve already brought down enough good men. Let's not add to her body count."

The lights of banquet room dimmed intermittently—the Commissioner was due to give his speech. William followed Cash around the side of the banquet room toward the main stage where the Commissioner would speak. At the lip of the stage were a dozen reporters and photographers huddled with their cameras and microphones. Across the audience, William saw a familiar face—Steve Trevor's handsome face was standing in his military jacket, his cap emblazoned with a captain's sigil. There were a dozen similarly dressed military brass standing around Steve. William and his father caught gaze of eachother; Steve nodded solemnly. William pretended to not to have seen him.

"Handsome dad," said Cash, a faint smile on his lips. "He must be proud."

William was silent. Cash laughed that fatherly laugh again.

"What—you think I don't know when Steve Trevor's boy signs up for GCPD? Why do you think we had you in New Gotham for training?"

"I thought you said that was for everyone?"

"Everyone whose father is one of Gotham's most noticeable citizens."

William didn't know what to say. He looked at his feet. "Have you told anyone?"

"No, it's your business. But you might want to say something eventually. You're not going to make many friends if you think you're too cool and rich for the guys."

"That's not why I did not say—"

"I'm just telling you how it looks."

Cash looked back at Steve with a frown. "You don't really look like him, though. I guess you got your mother's looks."

There was a Wayne Enterprises banner hanging along the banquet walls. It was one of many corporations advertising.

"I guess," said William. He tried not to look at the tapestry.

Lily Greene appeared on the main stage in the corner by the curtains. She was speaking lowly with someone who also wore a trenchcoat and cheap slacks—it was the Commissioner. He came up to Lily Greene's height—which should not have been the case because the Commissioner had long, slender limbs but his posture was hunched and it gave off the impression of an injured animal. He wore a gray-white moustache and his cheeks were bristly but not in a fashionable style—it was a plain disregard for daily grooming. The Commissioner was listening to Lily Greene silently but not looking at her. He was staring straight ahead to something unseen and unimportant. This gave William a clear look at the Commissioner's leather-worn skin, his droopy cheeks, and the decrepit state of his trenchcoat—yellowed, crumpled, and sooted in cigar ash.

"Damn," said Cash, saying what was on both of their minds. "It hurts to see that."

"That's the second time I've seen him since my cadet swearing," said William. "And he looks exactly the same."

"He was a real thundercloud back in his day. Make no mistake about that, Trevor."

They introduced the Commissioner and there was great applause but there was something wrong with the grandness of the applause, the grandness of the audience, the grandness of the banquet room compared to the lumbering, quiet, and frailty of the man who came to accept the grandness at the podium. The applause died out uncertainly as the Commissioner slowly reached into his breastpocket and produced a handwritten, coffee-stained paper and flattened it out on the podium's lectern and the crunch, crackle, and snap of the flattening was loud on the loudspeakers. The audience wore their discomfort on their patient smiles while they waited for the Commissioner to begin. And when he did begin to speak, his voice was threadbare and ashy like his coat. It did not inspire confidence nor attention and everyone was nodding as he spoke but nobody remembered anything. This was just a part of the evening that they had to suffer through and when it was over the socializing and drinking could begin again.

Lily Greene stood behind the curtains with her hands laced together. She was listening carefully but even she was not blinded by loyalty—she saw what the Commissioner had become, and it was costing her much to stand there and witness it firsthand.

Then the Commissioner finished to polite applause that was nowhere near the reciprocal of the first grand applause but the Commissioner did mimick himself by shuffling out at the same pace when had entered. Then Cash turned to William.

"There's a car waiting for him over by the main entrance. We get him through the hallway and through the lobby and there'll be a shift in the guard."

William followed Cash through the crowd. The Commissioner was shaking hands and taking a few photos but it was all perfunctory and drained of emotion. Nobody seemed to really smile when they posed for the photo—they were simply flexing the muscles of their lips.

A dozen police officers formed a security detail around the Commissioner and guided him out of the banquet room. Lily lead the way. The security detail reached the hallway and that's where William and Cash picked up their shift. The Commissioner saw Cash and he smiled.

"Sergeant Cash. Are you here to escort me to safety?"

"Yes, sir," said Cash in a deep, respectful tone. "If you'll follow me."

William followed on the flank of the detail. While they were walking, William realized the Commissioner was looking at him closely.

"You're Steve Trevor's boy, aren't you?"

Up ahead, Lily's head twitched to the side. As did Cash's. They were listening.

The Commissioner nodded backward to the banquet room. "Saw him back there. He's a good man, your father. Helped me out a few tight spots, politically speaking. A good friend of our police work. Always respected that."

"Thank you, sir," said William. "My mother wishes she could be here, but she's sick with the flu."

"Your mother," said the Commissioner slowly. "She's Diana Trevor, CEO of Wayne Enterprises?"

"Yes, sir."

"That's strange. Your father told me she sprained her ankle."

"I—"

The Commissioner had watery-grey eyes behind his glasses, and while William tried to justify his lie, those water-grey eyes became animated—they became those mighty thunderclouds that must have been Jim Gordon, back in his day. This lasted for only a moment, but it was such a discrepancy that it made a forever impact on William. But then the moment was gone.

"It's alright, Trevor. That's none of my business. Just wish her a speedy recover from me."

Like Lily, William also trusted his gut. And right now, he was sure that the Commissioner knew more than he let on.

They exited the hallway. Here more reporters and journalists waiting in the pleasant summer night. More police officers lined up on the steps. But these were not the rigid, on-duty formations. These police officers were standing respectfully and saluting. Commissioner Gordon looked at them all and nodded—was it gratitude? Was it disappointment? Nobody could tell.

"This is the exchange, sir," said Lily Greene. She stopped to face the Commissioner. "It's been a honor."

"Keep up the good work, Lieutenant," said Gordon. "You're making me very proud. Cash, say hello to Maria for me."

"Sir," bowed Cash. His face was completely stone.

The Commissioner started walking down the steps. He had his hands in his pockets. He suddenly stopped and turned his neck around so his body still faced down the steps but the contour did an odd thing to his lips and face. He was looking at William. "You, too, Trevor. You're making your father very proud."

The Commissioner's eyes lingered on William. Was the Commissioner smiling? It looked like it—but that was just the streetlights and night playing tricks. But it sure did look like he was smiling. Maybe even smiling slyly.

"Thank you, sir," said William. He wasn't sure what else to say.

The Commissioner went down with the new guard and he entered the black sedan waiting at the bottom of the steps. There was a long procession of police vehicles surrounding the sedan. It was like a caravan for a prince. The sedan, and the caravan, drove forward and disappeared around the corner.

"And so an era ends in Gotham City," said Cash heavily. "A door opens, another shuts."

"Be quiet, Cash," said Lily Greene. She brushed the crumbs of his lapel. "Don't go into poetry on me now."

"Like you'd understand poetry."

Neither of them were truly being mean to the other. That was obvious to William—and obvious to Cash and Greene.

"He was interested in you, Trevor," said Lily Greene. "How does your dad know him?"

"His Dad's ex-military," said Cash. "They probably work together."

"_Worked,_" said William. That one word did sad, sober things to their faces.

"Let's head back in," said Lily Greene. "There's probably some pastries left, too."

"Ouch," said Cash cheerfully.

They turned and headed back inside. But they weren't underneath the archway of the entrance when they heard the distant sound of gunshots. The sound was light and staticky, like rain on a tin lid.

"Automatic weapons," said Cash immediately. His black beetle eyes scanned the night in the direction of the sound. "Three-round bursts."

The night was silent after the gun shots. There was nothing to accompany the gunshots—no sudden wail of police sirens, no panic, no shouts for help.

For a moment, they all waited for something else to happen. Like smoke lingering after fireworks—they were drifting in the wake of something sudden and violent.

"Or maybe not," said Cash lowly, but his eyes were still searching. "It could have been an exploding firework. Or maybe a—"

The gunshots sounded off again—this time relentlessly, like a downpour of hail on windshields. Now came the shrill wail of police sirens in the distance. Lily's radio cracked with static.

"Officers down! Officers down!" repeated a panicked voice on the radio. "We got multiple assailants with—oh shit, look out!"

Screams erupted in the night. They heard them both in the night and on her radio. Then came volleys of machine gun fire.

The police officers of City Hall coming to life. Inside the hall, the banquet doors were closing shut. The panic was starting to settle in. Boots were stomping loudly on the concrete steps. The cling of jacket pins and gun straps and holsters unbuckling. The police were mobilizing, but Lily was calm the entire time.

"I need eyes on the Commissioner," she said into the radio. As she spoke she signaled with her hands to various police units—beckoning, sending away, organizing, commanding. "I repeat, what's the status on the Commissioner?"

The radio cracked to life again. The voice sounded ragged and out of breath. "Multiple officers down. Need all available backup on Second and Liberty! Multiple assailants."

"The Commissioner!?" said Lily Greene into her receiver with anger in her calmness, as if she was a teacher pressing her students for the correct answer. "I need a location on the Commissioner."

The radio barked back. "They got him. They're putting him on a vehicle…looks like a motorcycle."

"What do you mean _looks _like a motorcycle—?"

Time slowed. William saw Lily Greene's eyes dilate, her lip tremble, her flesh turn pale. Cash too was looking both terrified and amazed; exhilarated and panicked.

_But it makes no sense_, thought William. _It can't be._

The gunshots gradually stopped—it was like the way curtains slowly close in on a stage. So did the distant police sirens. It became quiet. Then there was a roaring sound, like a jet plane taking off.

"Who has the Commissioner?" said Lily Greene. She was looking ahead, her hand was actually trembling—but she wasn't scared; the look she had in her eyes was the opposite of fear. "_Who _has the Commissioner?"

The voice that came from the radio was cowed. Barely more than a whisper. Like they were afraid of being overhead by someone nearby.

"Jesus Christ, Lily. It's him. H—he's back._"_

* * *

Emma Trevor sat along the roof of Wayne Enterprises – it was the tallest building in the financial district, and since the financial district was the unofficial center of New Gotham, from here she had perfect command of the city. Her legs hung suspended over the side of the beam, and underneath her dangling legs were the grid patterns of the intersecting streets, the million beads of light refracting from the streetlights, the cars, the skyscrapers. City Hall was a few blocks to her left, and to her far right, the green neon lettering of _GothCorp _shone like a mosquito lamp. She didn't know which side of the city would need her, but she was prepared for either, nonetheless.

To her immediate left lay a bag. Inside the bag were her gear: a black balaclava, a pair of black taser sticks, rope, and a belt. The balaclava would cover her face, the tasers would disarm any assailants, the rope would tie them up—and the belt was supposed to carry all of her equipment.

She had taken inspiration from that newspaper clipping—in it, the amateurish Batman had worn all black, and so did she. She wore black combat boots, black lycra pants, and a black shirt. She had even painted the skin around her eyes with black shadow, giving her a racoon-esque image. She slung the backpack over her shoulder. It then occurred to her that she didn't need a bag if she had a belt for her gear. Now she felt stupid with the bag over her shoulder. It felt like she was going to school.

Suddenly her phone buzzed. It was her mother. Emma slowly exhaled—she had not forgotten about their scuffle in the kitchen. But she couldn't sound to cross. Right now it was about getting her mother off the phone as quickly as possible. Emma put on her most bored, pleasant voice—the voice she reserved for Wayne Enterprises meetings.

"Hey, Mom," said Emma. "How are you?"

"Emma? Is that you? Hello, are you there?"

"Yes, Mom. I'm here."

"You sound strange—are you okay?"

Emma looked down at the streets – it was more than a thousand-foot drop. "I'm fine, mom. Just hanging around."

She heard her mother breathe very forcibly on the other side of the line. "I'm glad to hear, Emma. How is David? Is he still asleep?"

To Emma's immediate right was a small screen with a camera feed. She had plugged this into David's baby monitor, and was able to see David sleeping in his crib.

"He's fine, Mom. He's sleeping."

"Good, good. And Alfred?"

Emma cycled through the other baby monitors stationed around their home. Alfred was watching a TV program—rather, the TV was on, and Alfred was napping in the chair.

"They're both asleep," said Emma. "Nothing out of the ordinary here, Mom."

"Good," breathed Diana. Her voice was trembling. "Very good."

There was a pause and Emma looked down into the city grid. From her vantage point the car-engines were muted so the cars seemed to go down the streets of their own volition like they were on magnetized tracks and it reminded Emma of the small scale models she played with as a child.

"Emma," began Diana very slowly. "About earlier."

"It's alright, Mom. I'm over it."

"It wasn't right of me to do that, Emma."

"It's alright, Mom. We all make mistakes."

"Yes, but I'm the adult and you're the . . ."

Her mother was going to say 'child,'—but her mother's sudden loss of words meant that she knew, at least on a basic level, that the platitude no longer applied.

"I think I understand, Mom," said Emma. "We don't have to talk about it anymore—how are you two?"

"We're fine," said Diana. It seemed like that was all Diana was going to offer about her operation, but then, added. "We'll be done here soon enough. And then everything will be back to normal. You'll see, baby."

"Sounds good, Mom."

"Okay, then."

Emma was not contributing to the conversation—she answered politely but laconically. She wanted her mother off the phone.

"I have to go, Mom. I have some files Lucius wanted me to read."

"Sure, sure," said Diana. "I'll talk to you later."

"Okay, Mom."

Emma was reaching to press the end-call button.

"Emma, hold on," said Diana suddenly. "Just one more thing."

Emma was holding the phone very delicately. Her heart was pumping hurriedly—did her mother know?  
"I just want you to know that you babysitting— which I know is something you really don't want to do—means a lot to me."

"Mom, I get it. We don't have to talk about it anymore."

"All I'm saying is that it _is _important. I can't tell you how much a relief it is to me that you're at home."

"Thank you, Mom," said Emma in a neutral tone. Although she was starting to feel a shade of guilt from the praise her mother was giving her. "I appreciate it."

"I'm serious, Emma. You let me focus on this operation. So you _are _helping right now, Emma. You are helping protect this city. I know it's not the way you envisioned it. But it's a start."

"Again, Mom. I appreciate it—wait, what do you mean 'start'?"

Diana inhaled deeply. Emma found herself leaning forward, as if drawn in by her mother's sudden inhalation. Was this really happening?

"I've been thinking about what you were saying. And it does seem ridiculous to expect you to be something you're not. So, I'm going to talk to Clark and Lucius, and we'll see if we can start teaching you the ropes—"

Just then a descending plane flew over Emma's head. The plane roared like a wave crashing on the bluffs. Emma felt herself go cold, as if an actual wave had fallen upon her—dousing her and the small ember of hope barely taking form inside her chest.

"What on earth was that?" demanded her mother. She had lost all tenderness and understanding in her tone.

"That? I, um, was trying to lower the volume for Alfred and I accidentally put it up…but he looks to be still asleep."

Emma's heart raced. Her lie sounded terrible and meek.

"Emma," said her mother very curtly. "Where are you?"

The plane was descending a little further away. This rounded out the crashing noise to a gentle conclusion, and now there was only the miserable silence for Emma to stew in. A silence that was uncomfortable and prickly. That jabbed at her. That gave a face to her mother's curt voice.

It was make or break time. William once told Emma that the best lies were half-truths: it made them easier to remember. So Emma coughed, scrambling her thoughts together. She would tell a version of the truth.

"I'm on the roof, Mom," said Emma. "I just…I just wanted to be alone for a minute. I can still see David and Alfred, but I couldn't stand to be in there any longer."

That silence was still there, still giving all sorts of faces to her mother's reaction. Would her mother be angry that Emma was lying? Would her mother be disappointed? The disappointment was always the worse—that quiet, unable to meet you in the eyes expression that parents gave children. Emma would take yelling and punishment anytime. She couldn't stand that other kind of disappointment.

"I go up there, too," said Diana after a moment. She sounded wistful. "Whenever Dad or your brother annoys me. It's a beautiful view of the city, isn't it?"

Emma exhaled. It had actually worked.

"Yeah, Mom. It is a nice view, alright."

"Baby," began Diana. "I know you don't understand right now, but I'm looking out for your best interests. You realize that?"

Emma nodded glumly. "Yeah, Mom. I do."

"I was unfair to you earlier. But just hold out a little bit longer, okay? When this is all over, we'll talk about your future. I promise."

The lie had worked beautifully_. _But instead of relief or exuberance, Emma felt nothing but guilt. Sour, stinky, aching guilt. It sloshed about in her belly like sewage. "Thanks, Mom," said Emma timidly.

"I have to go," said Diana finally. "I'll see you again—and Emma."

"Yeah, Mom?"

"I love you—I always love you."

"I love you, too, Mom."

The call ended. Emma was miserable. The suffocation was on her again—even her attempt at breaking the rules had backfired. Her mother had the upperhand—the moral high ground. Her mother had said 'I love you,' and now Emma felt rotten because she was betraying her family.

There was no escape. Even up here, alone and overwatching the city, she was accompanied by guilt and anger. It was like a talisman she wore around her neck. She was like that for some time, boiling in her guilt and anger. She watched camera feed. She was starting to have second thoughts about this. Maybe she should go home—

A beating of gunfire suddenly exploded from the left side of the city – from City Hall. Emma got up off the edge of the skyscraper. A few seconds later there came the banshee shriek of police sirens echoing in the distance, followed shortly by the _chop chop chop _of helicopters cutting through the air. Searchlights swarmed the streets.

Emma quickly stuffed the camera feed into her backpack. She brought out the mask and the taser sticks. Something was happening. And whatever it was, it was near City Hall.

William and her father were down at City Hall. But her mother and Uncle Clark were at GothCorp.

Emma was paralyzed, her body split between two choices. Left or right? Mother or Father? Brother or Uncle?

Who was she going to help?

She thought about her mother. Her mother loved her children more than she loved herself, and she would never forgive Emma for neglecting her brother when he needed her the most.

Emma slipped the balaclava over her head. It wasn't impressive or high-tech, but it did the job of disguising her face. She stood on the edge, rolling the bag over her shoulder. Now she was upright, and a little off-balanced by a sudden wind. She rocked gently over the precipice of the fall. Her boots felt heavy and snug over her feet, and the cotton of the balaclava was thick and slightly starchy on her skin. She breathed in as she fixed the belt around her hips. It was not a snug fit, but it hung securely along her hip bone. She breathed out. The world was below her feet. And above her, the star constellations were out.

When she was a little girl, their mother told them about astronomy and astrology—they were once a fused language. You could navigate the oceans with the same stars that you could read your fortune. Stars carried meaning about the world and about yourself. And all the gods and myths and religions tied up in the constellations were forever linked with the emerging science of the day.

She never learned her constellations, not like William, but she did remember the stories: the joyride of Phatheon that scorched the earth with his father's sun chariot; how Theseus slew the Cretan Bull; the treacherous quest of Jason and argonauts for the fleeced sheep. So many of those stories were epic victories, while others were epic defeats. Lessons in hubris, lessons in courage.

What would her story be? She easily saw it both ways in a newspaper obituary—'here lies Emma Trevor, the girl who thought she could be her mother'; or 'Emma Trevor, the savior of the city.'

She didn't feel the push her legs as she launched herself into the air. She was looking at the stars—for a long, short moment. She was sailing in the ocean of stories—beside her she saw Phatheon riding out of control, Theseus with his sword, and Jason with the prized sheep. But these were really giant pieces of steel and concrete from the propulsion of her jump. She had torn out the ledge. And she was tearing out her throat, from all her screaming.

It did not come to her immediately. She crashed horribly into the next building. The impact sent concrete, electrical wiring, and air conditioning units flying into the air. But she kept rolling forward, the balaclava feeling more and more sweaty and thick on her face, the belt jangling excitedly like a cowboy on her hips. She again pushed off the ledge and flew into the night.

She was flying, she was _living. _The cold air was unforgiving on her bare eyelids, and she made a mental note to buy lenses for the next time—but there was nothing in the world like this, and she had already had some very good sexual partners. Sex did not come close.

She leaped from skyscraper to skyscraper in pursuit of the police caterwauling. She followed the helicopters. They were leaving City Hall, slowly moving across Main Avenue. Underneath the helicopters, an entire caravan of police vehicles were blitzing down the avenue. The cacophony had a bizarre nightclub quality: _redblue redblue redblue_ whorled the fast and furious strobelights, and the sirens lapped endlessly like electronic synthesizers over the steady _doo-wop_ of the helicopter rotors. It was carnivalesque, a neon parade. And at the head of the parade was their conductor: a massive motorbike drabbed in black. The police caravan followed this conductor doggedly and closely as they ricocheted down the avenue.

_So it's a police chase_, she thought. The police were after the motorbike. She recognized the bike from her report on her computer—the matted black texture, the daredevil simplicity, the angular curve. A coldness was entering her chest. A growing, numbing disbelief. It was not possible. He was supposed to be dead.

She followed the chase through the Diamond Square where the giant jumbotrons blew up the chase on their massive screens. In clear type ran the headline: _Commissioner Gordon kidnapped. Police in pursuit. Vigilante Returns? _And above the headline was a live feed on the motorbike. There were two riders, both of whom she recognized: Commissioner Gordon sat in the rear seat, gagged and handcuffed with a bewildered, almost exhilarated look. The other rider, the driver, was shrouded in black with a furious cowl over his face. His lips were fixed and flat, but there was a slight derision to the flatness, almost a mirthful upturn at his lips, that made him looked pleased with himself.

She steadied herself against a gargoyle and watched. The coldness in her chest was pressing and contracting her lungs. She was taking hard, swiping breaths. He was supposed to be dead, gone, vanished into the mythos of the city's ether memory. And yet here he was before her, a materialization of her most far-fetched dreams.

Somewhere in the city a church's bells were tolling. But the bells did not sound grave nor austere. In the excitement of the police chase, they sounded obscene and joyful, like a perverted pipe organ at a funeral procession. Everything was wrong and out of place. The tolling of the bells marked no death, but the opposite of the death. Not a birth but the inverse of the dying. Someone, clearly—wrongly—had just returned from the other world. And this oversaturation before her was the loud, squawking trumpet of their return.


	13. Chapter 12 - The Man Known as Roland

Chapter 12

Diana turned off her cellphone. Clark was watching her.

"Is everything alright?" he asked.

"Everything is fine. Just some problems I've had with Emma—pray your child is a boy," she added darkly.

"Funnily enough, I was hoping for a girl," said Clark fondly. He pantomimed a baby in his arms. "I'd take her out to get ice-cream."

"That only lasts until they become teenagers, Clark."

He frowned. "Emma loves Steve, though. As do I."

Diana sighed. "It's different for men. Dads. They love their little girls. Mothers and daughters, on the other hand . . . Lois will know what I'm talking about."

They were at the GothCorp factory grounds. The factory comprised of a main building with several extending steamstacks, and adjacent to the main building were several tankards and silos. At the far end of the grounds, opposite the main building, were a row of delivery trucks parked rear-side first into a wall. The space in the middle was the main parking lot, and it was lit by a dozen phosphorescent lampposts. Clark and Diana waited in the parking lot. It was quiet and the factory's huge face was shadowy. They both seemed to understand the factory was empty.

Clark leaned against a lamppost. In his flannel shirt and boots, and against the chiaroscuro contrast of the dark factory, he looked like a model for some strange urban photoshoot.

"So what about William? Do you get along better with him?"

"I used to," she said honestly. "He used to be the sweetest boy in the world."

"I think every parent says that about their child, Di," laughed Clark. It was a pleasant, non-offensive laugh.

"But it was true," she insisted. "He opened doors for me and Emma. He always hugged me around the thighs and shined up his little face at me. And then when he started to get older, he changed as well."

"I think that's just teenage angst, Di," said Clark. He scratched his head. "Lois told me about this rebel phase she went through at fifteen."

"Maybe," said Diana softly. She was looking out at the city. "But they're supposed to grow out of angst, Clark. What William has . . . I don't think that's just angst."

Clark's silence was an invitation. He was breathing inward, which gave Diana the beat to exhale outward. To keep talking.

"He's jealous of his sister, of me," continued Diana. "He's been like that for five years now—ever since they got into high school. That's when Emma really started to, you know, _show. _And then one day I overheard William talking with Steve. Will asked 'Dad, when will it be my turn?'"

Her voice was small and it had the quality of vulnerability to it—like an injured animal limping along the forest. Clark's broad features softened. He was a large man, but he looked several times smaller, more fragile. Diana had a sudden, but almost objective realization—Clark was now seeing her differently. He was seeing her as a mother.

"And sometimes I worry, Clark," she admitted. She was still looking out at the city. It was easier to talk this way. "Sometimes I think this family thing is a million times harder than anything we ever did—back in the day."

"I understand, Di."

Diana smiled bitterly. "No, you don't. Not yet. But you will. When that baby comes. You will."

Clark pushed off from the lamp post. He did this so quickly after her comment, Diana thought she had offended her friend. Her bitterness vanished off her face, replaced by sincere regret.

"Clark, wait. I didn't mean to—"

"Di," said Clark. He was staring beyond her shoulder.

His tone of voice had shifted entirely—he was no longer participating in their prior conversation. Something was happening. Diana turned around in the direction of his stare.

Two figures were materializing from the dark face of the factory. And they were dressed blacker than shadows around them—they wore leather boots, black fatigues, and what looked like plated armor over their chest. Masks covered their face except for their eyes and lips. This was the only part of the attire that was not black—their emerald eyes dancing within the slits of their masks.

"Unbelievable," said the shorter of the pair. This was clearly Talia. Her curves and strutting hips were hard to conceal behind the camouflage of her disguise. Her green eyes inspected them disdainfully. "I suppose you two misunderstood what we meant by 'reconnaissance.'"

The taller of the pair, clearly Ra's, came up beside his daughter. "Normally I'm loathe to agree with my daughter on such trivial concerns, but she is right. Why are you two dressed as if you're out for a night on the town?"

Clark shifted nervously but quietly. It was clear he was going to leave the explaining to Diana.

"Because this small skirmish does not merit our full attire," said Diana. "And we'd like to keep a low profile—in case you didn't know, vigilantes were banished in this city twenty years ago."

"'Banished,'" repeated Ra's Al Ghul. He was smiling wolfishly. "I believe we have a certain Dark Knight to thank for that, don't we?"

Talia continued to scrutinize them. She had her hand on her sword. "Did you two at least brings weapons?"

Clark and Diana looked at eachother, a little sheepish. A painful silence ensued, and Talia stood there, waiting for an answer. Diana felt like she was a child who had forgotten to bring their backpack to school.

"Brilliant," scoffed Talia. "Father, please. They are going to get us killed. Let us abort this stupid alliance."

"My colleague never used a weapon," said Diana, a little defensiveness in her voice. "And this operation does not merit my sword and shield."

"Oh, you stupid, arrogant—" snarled Talia.

"Alright, then!" said Ra's suddenly. He thrust his gaze around the factory, in a grand sweeping gesture that clearly took control of the night's momentum. "Let us take our position. Talia will sweep the grounds, while the Princess and I will take guard the main building. Mr. Kent, you shall be our overwatch. I would like you to take position on one of the steam stacks and alert us of any potential threats. And if you do see anything—"

Ra's suddenly stomped his foot onto the ground, most emphatically.

Clark shook his head. "No, we don't kill people."

Ra's blinked, as if he had never heard something so ridiculous. "But what if they're trying to kill you?"

"Then we detain them, and we put them in jail."

Talia laughed nastily. She was walking away, strutting. "Oh yes, I can see this is going to be very easy."

They took their positions. Diana and Ra's stood on a metal grate balcony attached to the main building. They were directly underneath the glowing lettering of the _GothCorp _insignia. The two of them had a direct view onto the main parking lot. Clark was above them perched on a steamstack. He drifted in and out of sight with the camouflage of the steam. And Talia was out of sight—no doubt patrolling the area with cat-like aloofness. All they had to do was wait.

But nothing was happening. There was only the empty parking lot; Diana's mind was _far _from empty. Thoughts rolled about in her mind like clothes in a drying machine. Her children, her husband, her home, her city, her family. She was anxious for something to happen and take her mind off her anxiety—where was this blasted Roland? Why was he taking so long?

Behind her, Ra's Al Ghul snickered. He was reading her emotions on her face.

"Perhaps you've never been on a surveillance mission, Princess?"

"I have," snapped Diana. "And stop calling me Princess."

"But it is what you are, no?"

Diana threw him a dirty look. "Not anymore."

"Right, I forget. You are now Diana Trevor, homebody. Should I call you 'Mom' instead?"

"You can call me Diana," she said curtly.

Ra's leaned against the railing of the balcony, he was watching the parking lot. "I suppose Bruce fulfilled this part of your organization, yes? The pre-ops and recon. I'm sure all you and the Kryptonian had to do was show up and punch the evil villain."

Diana remained silence—partly because she didn't want to speak to Ra's, but also because he was absolutely correct. Back in their day, Diana and Clark were the heavy hitters of the group. It was Bruce who provided them with intel. It was Bruce who planned their operations.

"Gotham City," said Ra's in a loud, mocking tone. He had turned his attention onto the city beyond the parking lot. "I suppose Bruce got what he wanted in the end, didn't he? He saved this city while ensuring it forever hated his guts. Ironic."

Ra's was baiting her. He wanted to disturb her, get underneath her skin. But she wouldn't play his game. Diana kept her eyes focused on the factory grounds. But Ra's continued on.

"Still, look what he's achieved—twenty years of relative peace. No more need for superheroes. A pleasant façade built on a lie. Very well-done."

Ra's sounded proud. Diana couldn't help but look at him side-eyed.

"Oh I know what you're thinking," said Ra's, grinning. "But would it surprise you that I knew a Bruce Wayne that you never got to see? When I first met him, he was an angry, volatile boy. He happily accepted our 'morally-ambiguous' culture. He became my greatest student. But by tempering his anger, we also tempered his amoral inclinations. Suddenly, Mr. Wayne became quite preoccupied with ridiculous notions of 'justice' and 'due process.'"

"Yes, he sounds like quite the radical, Ra's," she muttered.

"It was. He spent nearly ten years waging an unfruitful assault on crime and corruption with useless means. And what did it take to finally achieve his goals? He had to set aside his pride and do what must be done. In the end, he did exactly what I would have done. And I'm proud to say that."

This time Diana turned to face Ra's fully. Her face was pure loathing. "Let us get something straight: Bruce Wayne was nothing like you."

Ra's returned her hate with an obnoxious, knowing tone of voice. "No? Where do you think Bruce got his Bat motif from? Where do you think he learned his intimidation tactics? And why do you think he dressed as he did? Bruce based his own designs off our battledress. You can see that clearly from the exposed area around the mouth."

"That doesn't make him like you, Ra's," she answered coldly. "He didn't mimic your moral codes."

"He killed a man to ensure this city's future. Sounds suspiciously like me."

"You have no idea what you're talking about—"

Just then the sound of police sirens wailed in the distance. That brought an immediate halt to their debate. The earpiece in Diana's ear vibrated with Clark's voice.

"That's coming from City Hall. There's something going on."

"It is the first move on the chessboard," said Ra's, without hesitation. "Roland will be here soon."

Diana's mind went to her family. William was working at City Hall, and Steve would also be in attendance. They were both in danger.

Ra's suddenly was looking at her. "Something on your mind, Diana?"

Diana threw him a look. "I'm fine, Ra's."

The smile on Ra's face was entirely too knowing and sinister. "Of course."

The truth was that she was thinking of abandoning the plan. Her gamble had not paid off—why hadn't she stopped William from leaving the house? Now he was at the center of whatever danger was happening at City Hall. Her husband, too. The nervousness was coming back to her from the morning of the birthday party—that sensation that caused her to break the mug. It slid up her stomach, up her esophagus, and lodged there, choking and suffocating.

She knew what she needed to know. She needed to get to City Hall. Her family was more important than Roland, than this city. It scared her to admit it, but it was true.

"To hell with this," she spat. She stepped onto the rail of the balcony, ready to leap into the air. Ra's was looking at her. "I need to protect my son." She grabbed the railing with her hand, lifting herself up. "I need to protect my family—"

For a moment she was sure her eyes were playing tricks on her. One second ago, the parking lot was empty. Now there was a lone figure standing at the center of the parking lot. She froze on the guardrail. Somehow, she knew who the man was. It was too obvious.

"Roland," said Ra's. His lips hardly moved as he said the name; the sound came from his throat.

Roland stood directly underneath one of the lamp posts. He was perfectly illuminated—an easy target. He had a sword on his hip, like Talia and Ra's, but he wore a grey hood that concealed his face. He had a grey sash tied to his hip. His feet were planted, his shoulders squared. His arms hung loosely at his side, almost like a gunslinger.

Diana slowly climbed off the railing. Beside her, Ra's put his hand to the sword at his hip. Neither of them took their eyes off Roland.

Roland's hood suddenly shifted upwards. He was looking at them on the balcony. Then he swung his weight onto one hip, and he brought his hands up in a shrug—_well? _said the gesture.

At the far end of the parking lot, Talia's slim silhouette drop in behind. She was coming slowly, unseen, upon Roland.

"What do we do?" whispered Diana. Roland was now folding his arms, an obnoxious pantomime of impatience.

Ra's started walking down the balcony. "Let us go chat."

Roland's hood moved and tracked their descent while the rest of his body was quite still. It was like a lazy king on a throne watching beloved servants come in his court.

Ra's and Diana stopped at the edges of the lamp post's light. This way, Roland was still fully exposed at the center of the light, and it gave Ra's and Diana a certain comfort feeling of camouflage.

"Roland," said Ra's in a calm, careful tone. "You know why we're here."

Roland's grey hood nodded. Underneath that hood, they saw not even a hint of a jawline.

Diana stood next to Ra's. It was clearly her turn to speak, and when she spoke, she tried her best to sound authoritative but assured. "This city is under my protection. I don't know who you are, nor why you are here. But I'm asking you, politely, to leave. This is your only chance."

Roland's hood cocked to one side. And although she couldn't see his eyes, she felt the weight of his gaze. It was like a coldness had been laid upon her. The void of the hood stared at her.

Now she was uncertain. This didn't feel right. Roland was one man. They had him outnumbered; out-gunned; and out-matched. But she felt like that was the whole point; Roland wanted to be the center of attention. To draw the focus. That way, they would not see things happening around them.

Quickly, discreetly, she stole a glance around her. But there was nothing happening. The factory was quiet and unstirring.

Underneath the hood, there was the slightest, faintest snicker of breath. He still had not moved.

Now Diana felt a little foolish—that discreet glance had cost her dearly. In the eyes of Ra's and Roland, she no longer looked composed and confident. Now she looked skittish. Anxious. And Roland still hadn't done a single thing, physically.

Ra's was right—this was a chess game, and Roland was winning before they had even started. He was reading and anticipating movements. Now the fear was growing in Diana: there was only one other man who drew this kind of reaction from her. And he had been dead for twenty years.

Talia, meanwhile, continued to move upon Roland's exposed back. She moved in complete silence, making no more noise than a shadow would. It was impressive.

Roland suddenly jerked a thumb over his shoulder. The movement was very loud and surprising, considering he had not moved for such a long time. "Tell your daughter to stay right where she is, Ra's. Otherwise, I'll be forced to do something rather unpleasant."

Roland sounded nothing like what Diana had imagined. She expected a deathly rattle, or a chesty deepness to go with the void-like quality of his hood. But his voice was rather lush, throaty, and tropical. English was clearly not his first language. And he sounded bored.

"And please tell the Man of Steel that there's no use hiding up so far away. Let him come and join us. We have much to discuss."

Diana and Ra's hid their reactions with silent, neutral faces. But it was useless. Roland had the upper-hand, the momentum. He had already exposed Talia without even turning around, and now he had exposed Clark. To deny this was foolish. It would be like trying to sweep away the rain.

Ra's was first to break. His face split with a surrendering, displeased sneer.

"C'mon, Ra's," boomed Roland in a pleasant tone. "Do you think I have no surveillance of my own? We've known about you since the minute you stepped into the city. Now please, let the big man come down."

Roland made a big waving gesture to Clark up on the steamstacks. It was like a man inviting his neighbor to a barbeque. Clark remained on the smoke-stack.

"No?" said Roland. His waving hand fell to his side. "How disappointing. But I'm sure Mr. Clark Kent would like to hear what I have to say next."

He pulled out what looked like a large phone from his belt. He held it out before them. "Do you know what this is?"

"Let me guess," said Diana through gritted teeth. "Some sort of explosive switch?"

Roland chuckled again. "Not exactly. It's a phone with a projector attached. Would you like to see a movie? I love movies—they transport you to another world, make you care about imaginary people who you'd never meet. You cry for them, cheer for them, like if they were your own family. Although in this case . . . "

Roland pointed the projector onto the parking lot wall. The picture was grainy and too blurry, and Roland was working the lens on the camera.

"_Raul, enfoque la camera,_" said Roland in flawless Spanish. He seemed to be speaking into a radio in his ear.

Slowly the projection on the parking lot wall came into focus. Diana's blood froze. The life she had built, that she held close to her chest like a framed photograph, was crumbling.

Roland chuckled underneath the hood. "Don't look so bad. It wasn't difficult deduction. One only had to read the signs. There's nothing like a family, would you agree? The bonds, the camaraderie, the intense emotions they arouse. One minute we want to pull their hair, the other we want to exchange hugs. I've always loved family – its poisonous, weak, impractical, but at the end of the day, necessary."

Now Clark was slowly making his way down from the smokestacks. Diana recognized the shocked, disbelieving look Clark's eyes.

The projection flashed with images of Alfred and little David at their home: David was sleeping soundlessly in his crib, whereas Alfred was in the kitchen, reading a paper while drinking tea. The projection switched to another home, another scene of innocent domestic bliss: Lois was sleeping on a sofa, the TV blaring silently. Her pregnant belly moving up and down underneath the couch blanket.

"I have men trained outside your family homes," said Roland as he commanded the projector, like some sadistic weather reporter. "They're hiding in the new garden you installed, Mr. Kent. Would you like to see?"

Roland switched the projection again. Clark was trembling.

"Tell me, is it considered double homicide if the child dies in utero?" asked Roland quietly. "I've always wondered—that's one of those 'grey' areas of the law, no? I argue that is double murder -after all, the child, at this stage of pregnancy, is already developed, no? can feel pain? I suppose we could ask your son, Mrs. Diana Trevor. Is he not an officer of the law?"

The projection jumped again—William was standing in the banquet hall of City Hall. He was talking to a portly black man. They both watched the stage.

"Do you see that man standing behind your son?" asked Roland. "He's posing as a state assemblyman. At my orders, he'll cut your son's throat. Nice, eh?"

"I swear," hissed Diana. She was trembling now, furious and cold and outraged. "If you hurt my family—"

Roland extended his arm out the side. The other arm he had the phone trained on the wall. "Do you not possess the means to destroy me? Do it –right here. I am defenseless."

Roland stood there in the middle of the lamp posts light—vulnerable; obnoxiously so. But neither Clark nor Diana moved. Roland's arm fell back to his side.

"That's what I thought. You may hate me, but in reality I am David and you both are Goliath. You two are much stronger, much faster. I simply have put more effort into my chosen weapon. Maybe you should next time do the same."

She wanted badly to hit him. To yank that hood away and reveal his smug, arrogant face, to make that face bloody and beaten and make him scream for mercy, to make him beg forgiveness, to make him scream that he'd never threaten her family ever again.

But she couldn't. He had them. Diana knew it. Clark knew. And Roland definitivelyknew it.

"It seems like we understand each other," said Roland, very carefully. "Good." He turned off the projector. He put the phone away. "Now, inside this factory are precious chemicals I need for my work. I would like the group of us to go inside, and obtain these chemicals."

It looked like Talia had heard enough. She unsheathed her sword, coming within striking distance of Roland's exposed heart. "I am under no oaths to their families. I'll kill you right here, where you stand, Roland, if you think we're going to help you steal these chemicals."

"Talia," said Roland heavily, the way he might address an annoying sister. "Diplomacy never suited you. If you strike me down, their families die."

Talia raised the sword high. She was sneering. "I don't care about their families."

Talia took one step forward with her blade. That's when Diana came forward, blocking off Talia's path.

"I can't let you hurt him," said Diana in a low, tamed voice. "I'm sorry."

Clark stepped forward as well. He didn't say anything, but his big, bulky figure stated the obvious. Talia's eyes were wide. Her face registered with the cold understanding. She looked like she wanted to laugh and scream.

"I knew this was a mistake," she said coldly. Her sword went back into her sheath. "I told you, Father. I told you they would be a liability."

Ra's, however, did not respond with a trademark quip. He watched Roland with careful, fascinated eyes, as if he had never seen a man like him before.

Roland put his phone away into his belt. He cleared his throat, as if giving a speech. "Now, if there isn't anything else. Mr. Kent, I'd like you to help with our entrance. A ten-by-eight hole in the side of the factory will serve nicely as an entrance—this way, we do not set off any alarms," added Roland. He was speaking to Diana, as if he was a tour guide and the rest of the group were his party. "And don't you worry, Mom Trevor, I will not harm a hair on your children's head, as long as you follow my rules. It's ironic, is it not? Think of yourselves as children, and me as the parent—" he started gesturing with his finger, like a parent making a point, "as long as you follow the rules, nobody gets hurt. Easy, eh? Like kindergarten—follow the leader!"


	14. Chapter 13 - The Dark Night Returns

Chapter 13

Lily Greene and William raced down Gotham City in their police cruiser. The engine growled underneath Lily's heavy foot, and she wrought screams from the rubbers tires by twisting the steering wheel to its uppermost limits. They were at the head of the police chase, behind their cruiser a caravan of police vehicles. Helicopters flew overhead with their blades chopping wind. The siren wail of the massive police force made for a tremendous battle cry in the night air.

"I want every bridge out of New Gotham raised—no, better yet, barricade them all!"  
screamed Lily Greene into her radio receiver. With one hand she clamped down on the steering wheel with her knuckles white and the other hand she had the radio in her hand. "Stuff each bridge with roadblocks and spikes on the Old Gotham entrances. I don't want to see any sirens—keep a low profile. We're gonna maroon him on this side of the city."

They were chasing the motorbike – what _looked _like a motorbike. It's two tires were mammoth, and its chassis carved out of ebony fiberglass. There were two riders. The passenger was Commissioner Gordon, with his mouth duct-taped and his arms bound behind him. He sat backwards on the bike, facing the police, his ashen trench coat flapping around him. The driver wore sleek and fitted gear: matte black armor, a brooding cowl, and a glittering mesh cape.

The motorbike, and the two riders upon it, darted through alleys and sub-streets with unimaginable daring. The motorbike was fast—must faster than anything that big should have been_. _The motorbike's engine, unlike the grueling growl of the police vehicles, hummed with a cello string's precision, gaining higher and higher in pitch as the chase went on.

"Shoot him, dammit!" screamed Lily again into her receiver. "You have a clear shot at him."

"Are you crazy?" yelled William over the cacophony of the chase. He was holding onto his seat, terrified and exhilarated by the chase. "The Commissioner is in line of sight!"

The voice on the radio agreed with William. "_Negative. SWAT cannot obtain a clean shot."_

"Then shoot the bike!" demanded Lily. Her fury was boiling. "He's right there,Dispatch! What the fuck are we waiting for? The Commissioner is kidnapped and we're just sitting around waiting for—oh you got to be fucking kidding me!"

The motorbike maneuvered into a perpendicular alley at an impossible 90 degrees. A moment before the inevitable impact, the motorbike's mammoth wheels spun on their axis and glided into the 90 degree turn with gyroscopic grace. Then the wheels righted themselves again, and the motorbike throttled down the alley.

"Hold on," said Lily. She was going to attempt the turn, and she was bracing her body in anticipation.

William grabbed onto the passenger handrail. "Lily, are you out of your fucking mind!?"

She tried the turn. The police cruiser lurched to its right, the tires screaming bloody murder, and William smacked his head against the passenger window. Lily was spilling out of her seat, sitting nearly on the gear console. Then the cruiser banged against the alleywall and this shuttered the cabin and pinballed the two of them back into their seats. Now they were flush with the alley.

"Jesus!" yelled William. She had never stopped accelerating—the motorbike was ahead; its mammoth tire was chucking up newspapers and pieces of litter and garbage. Their cruiser drove through these falling debris and was gaining on the bike. William felt a little speedsick—the alley walls were shooting fast beside them, like on a space ship making a jump to lightspeed. William looked into the rearview mirror. No other police tried the turn at that speed. They were all slowly pulling into the alley, while other police cruisers simply raced along, no doubt hoping to cut the motorbike off down the city grid.

"Where the hell is he going?" said Lily lowly. She was holding onto steering wheel the way you hold onto a barbell at the gym. "He can't outrun us."

As they raced behind the motorbike, William caught the blur of the streets and skyscrapers falling behind them. The skyscrapers seemed to be spinning like turnstiles on a crazy circus ride. William caught the green neon _GothCorp_ of the chemical factory at the far end of the city—it lasted for less than a second, and then they were out of sight. The green sign looked so far away, forgotten, isolated. Unprotected.

William felt himself shrink smaller into his seat. He knew quite a bit about the Batman—partly out of his own interest, and partly because Emma was obsessed with the stories. The Batman was supposed to be a tactical genius. He always was several steps ahead of you.

_So why tonight?_ thought William. _Twenty years, and you pick this night, of all nights, to kidnap the Commissioner, when every single cop—from beats to off-duty to retired—would be at attention. _

The motorbike turned onto the Main Avenue. He was no longer cutting corners or swerving. The motorbike drove straight ahead, following Main Avenue's direct path to the Gotham Bridge. On the other side of the bridge, Old Gotham's dilapidated factories stood in dark, dusty relief.

"He's on Main Avenue, currently crossing Lincoln," said Lily Greene in a sudden whisper, like a hunter closing in on prey. She turned on the receiver again, her eyes never left the chase. "How's the barricade?"

The radio cracked with static. "_Set up and waiting, LT. Waiting for command to spring it."_

It was hard for Lily Greene to mask her excitement. Her eyes narrowed, and they gained something of a glossy sheen, like if she had taken some kind of pleasure drug.

"Lieutenant," said William suddenly, nervously. "Hold on a minute. Don't you think this is all too perfect?"

Lily Greene kept driving ahead, her attention so enraptured Will was unsure if she had even heard him.

"He wants us to chase him," continued William. "Think about it—twenty years, and he picks tonight? When every cop is working? And then he takes us on a merry goose chase around the city—"

"DAMMIT, TREVOR. SHUT UP!"

Her voice rebounded with fury and excitement—the police cruiser growled with fury and excitement. They were closing in on the motorbike. They could see the rims of Commissioner Gordon's glasses. Lily Green clutched the receiver to lips, her eyes glossy, a white-knuckled ecstasy ready to overtake her as soon as she issued the command.

The motorbike approached the first column of the Gotham bridge. The police barricade on the otherside was barely visible in the dark face of Old Gotham.

William saw it now. He saw what was happening like a boxer seeing the incoming counter-punch. But it was too late to act, too late to dodge the blow. Lily Greene, the entire GCPD, had walked into the trap as pleasantly as prospect buyers walk into a home.

This scene with the motorbike was a distraction. The Batman had _not _returned. Roland was using it to draw attention from the factory. Which meant that the attack on _GothCorp _was already underway.

The motorbike was now on the bridge proper. Up ahead lay Old Gotham.

"_NOW!_" thundered Lily Greene. She downshifted the cruiser, and their cruiser fell back, the engine whining gratefully. The dark side of the bridge exploded with light—the tall, mounted floodlights like some rudely awakened robot-giant; the bleary suddenness of the police high-beams; and the undulating waves of _redblue redblue redblue _swimming underneath. A literal wall of light, so bright and imposing it seemed like an angelic guardpost. Divine intervention coming to detain to the demonic force riding the motorbike.

The motorbike came to a stop several yards away from the barricade.

Behind William and Lily Greene, the rest of the police units were coming onto the bridge. The motorbike was now cut off on both sides. The police lights caught the motorbike at a cross-section—this illuminated the motorbike and the riders clear, painful clarity. The Commissioner blinked miserably against so much light. He looked annoyed. But the Batman sat on the seat. He did not move.

Lily Greene kicked open her driver door and stepped out with the swagger of a runway model. She dragged her a loudspeaker behind her.

"This has been a long time coming for me," she boomed in the microphone. Her voice was so maniacal and cocksure. "It is my pleasure to tell you that you're surrounded. Step away from the bike and the Commissioner with your hands up!"

The Batman did not respond. His situation was quite clearly—every single police officer on the bridge had their crosshairs trained on him. But he was perfectly calm and unmoving on the motorbike, seemingly disinterested in the show of force. The police, meanwhile, stood behind the doors of their cars and the shelter of the concrete columns. This was standard procedure, to take cover, but all it did was give the Batman an increasingly air of danger—it was _one _man, against hundreds. Yet there was a genuine wave of uneasiness washing about the police force. The more youthful faces of the police looked hesitant and alarmed; while the older veterans, the ones who had most likely seen the Batman in his hey-day, were neutral-faced and at-attention.

Everyone seemed to be waiting for the Batman's slightest movement. But it never came. The Commissioner meanwhile was irate underneath the blinding police lights. He glared impatiently at them.

"This is your second and final warning," thundered Lily Greene. "Get your ass out of the bike and move away from the Commissioner. Now!"

The police looked uncertainly between them—now that there was an ultimatum, they would be forced to act. And they all looked miserable, fearful.

"One," said Lily Greene, her eyes livid with light and excitement. "two, three—!"

The Batman, at the last dramatical moment, brought his hands over his head. The police seemed to exhale collectively. The tension was dissipating. The Batman stood up and swung his leg off the bike. He stepped to the side.

"Easy. Go easy there." Lily Greene's eyes never left the Batman. "Step away from the bike—slowly."

He complied, walking with a crisp, totally relaxed patience, as if he was humoring Lily Greene's commands. Lily Greene made a motion with her hand and pointed to the motorbike. "Trevor, secure the Commissioner," she said quietly. She was still watching the Batman.

William came around the police cruiser and stepped into the cross section of light. He was blinded, and his hand came up instinctively. He ran to the Commissioner, quickly but calmly, making sure to show no weakness, because his back was now exposed to the Batman, it was like turning your back to a tiger.

The Commissioner's eyes were watery from so much light, but they were grateful. He nodded dutifully as William got to work untying the ropes binding him to the bike.

"Keep your hands behind your head," said Lily Greene's cold, hungry voice. "Now, very slowly, get on your knee—actually, remove the mask."

William worked furiously on the ropes. What was Lily doing? Standard procedure was to tell the suspect to get on his knees. But she was letting her personal vengeance get the better of her. It felt like more baiting. And Lily kept taking it, unable to see herself clearly.

"Easy—slowly, that's it. Don't make any sudden movement—"

The entire police force made a shucking, shuttering sound. Like they all inhaled too sharply. William couldn't resist it himself—he left the ropes for a second and looked over his shoulder.

The Batman stood with his cowl in his hands—his face was grotesque. His lips were purple, and his skin blotched with bruising and swarthy veins. Now William knew what death looked like—it had to be this man's face.

There was suddenly a loud beeping coming from the bike. It was high-pitched and slowly increasing. Gordon struggled mightily against the ropes.

The Batman suddenly twisted his lips. It couldn't be said to be smiling, but what looked to be a sneer. A total arrogance sense of satisfaction. He dropped the cowl and kept walking, towards the end of the bridge.

William threw the last loop of rope off the Commissioner. The beeping increased its frequency.

"That's enough!" demanded Lily. "Get on your knees with your hands up—I SAID STOP!"

"Everyone get back!" screamed William. He had the Commissioner. They were running back to behind cover. The bike was beeping furiously now.

Lily Greene threw the speaker to the side. "FIRE!"

The night broke in a hail fire of shooting. At this range, nobody missed. The Batman staggered like an electric current rushed through him.

William threw the Commissioner behind a cruiser door and jumped in after. There was the explosion; it shook the bridge and for a moment there was no sound except the horrible compression in his ear. His entire body ached, but especially his chest like someone had taken a sledgehammer to his chest.

Car alarms were ringing. Police were sighing, getting to their feet. Everywhere was the crackle of boots on broken glass—the explosion had taken out all the cruiser windows. William poked his head out. The motorbike was blown to pieces—flaps of the rubber tires lay adjacent, and a black crater lay underneath the twisted, blackened chassis. It was smoking, too.

"Call ambulances and the fire department," commanded a tired, achy voice. "Take care of the wounded. I want the C.O.s on me. We got a lot of work left to do."

It was Commissioner Gordon. He was getting to his feet, brushing the glass off his trenchcoat. He had a jagged cut along his forehead, and his cheeks look red and wind-bitten from the joyride. He looked slightly dazed but at calm with the situation.

Lily Greene suddenly appeared from behind her police cruiser. She had ducked behind cover as well. "Where is he!" she demanded immediately. The explosion had knocked her hair backward, and had drawn soot and grime across her cheeks. She looked like a crazed car mechanic.

She was scanning over the bridge, her eyes wide. "I want coast guard and boat patrol on my position. Helicopters search the water. I want him found!"

"Lieutenant," said a miserable, grime-faced cop. He was just getting to his feet, knocking the glass out of his cap. "It's a hundred-foot drop. We shot him. There's no way he—"

"Then where the hell is he?! Either you produce his worthless ass in front of me, or let me do my fucking job."

The gunfire stopped.

"Lily!"

"Dammit! It's a stupid trick. He's hiding WHERE ARE YOU?"

The police slowly fanned over the area of the bridge. They found no trace of the Batman. Underneath the bridge was the swashing and black ocean. It was a hundred-foot drop.

Lily screamed into the receiver.

Lily Greene went to the railing. Her eyes darting over the ocean for any signs, but there were hundreds of oceans swells.

The Commissioner was now standing at the center of a dozen police officers. "I'm fine, I'm fine," said the Commissioner gruffly. "A dumb joyride, that's all. I'm fine, really, Gonzalez. Get those paramedics away, don't be silly. They're for anyone who is seriously hurt."

The Commissioner met William's eyes. He motioned over to him.

"What's the situation, Trevor?"

"Lieutenant Greene gave the order to fire on the 'Batman.' He fell over the side of the bridge."

The Commissioner eyed him. "Why do you say it like that?"

"Like what, sir?"

"In that skeptical voice—'The Batman,'" repeated the Commissioner.

"Sir," said William. "I—"

The Commissioner nodded very carefully. "He was too showy, right? And he didn't use guns."

"I—I thought the same, sir."

The Commissioner watched him approvingly. "What else are you thinking?"

"Well, I," began William, but instead of finishing his sentence, William turned and nodded to the city behind them. Main Avenue was completely empty and vulnerable. On the other side of the bridge, Old Gotham's dusty, dark face looked the same.

The Commissioner suddenly held his arm out. His face was sallow. "Give me your radio, Officer Trevor."

Lily Greene finally came back from the edge of the bridge. She was looking at them all curiously.

"This is Commissioner Gordon speaking. I want eyes open for potential BnEs and robberies throughout the city. Eyes open, people. Someone just made sure every cop in Gotham would be distracted. I need sitrep on every section of this city." The Commissioner lowered the radio from his lips. He turned to Lily with a determined fury. "Lieutenant, you're with me. We're taking a dozen patrol vehicles and combing New Gotham – the priority is the financial district. We need to cover the banks."

"Sir," said Lily. Her face was shining with fury and duty, but also a bit of humility. She realized what had happened. "I take full responsibility—"

"Relax, Greene," said the Commissioner. "This is my last night with any real authority. Let it fall on me."

William made to go with them but the Commissioner put his hand on William's shoulder. "You're staying here, son. I can't put Steve's Trevor in danger. Not after today."

The surprise and anger was evident on William's face. Lily Greene saw this but kept walking, pretending like she hadn't, or maybe she didn't want to risk any further abuse of her power.

The Commissioner sighed. "Your father tried to warn me something like this would happen today. I didn't listen. I can't have you falling into danger on top of that. It wouldn't be right."

"Sir, you can't just—"

"Stay here, Trevor," said the Commissioner, calm and commanding. "That's an order."

The police cruisers began backing out of the bridge, but there were so many vehicles packed into the narrow throat. Everyone was honking indignantly, their sirens wailing uselessly.

"Jesus," said Gordon, shaking his head. "What a day for Gotham's finest."

They left him on the bridge. Now all William had was the resentment to accompany him. No matter what he did, he was Steve and Diana Trevor's son. William walked across the bridge over to Old Gotham. It was unfair.

Down on the bank of Gotham, near the dark shadows, there was a sudden flourish of movement. It caught William's eye for a second, thinking it was some odd contouring of rushes or reeds. He waited for a second, to see if the movement would strike again.

It was only a flash, but the shadows moved in the same manner. William's heart raced. This time, he was sure he had spotted a silhouette.

He raced down the remainder of the bridge and turned out onto the slope. There was not much footing except sedge grass and weeds. He saw no trace of the silhouette.

"Hey Trevor!" called a police officer from the bridge. "What are you doing!?"

"Nothing," called William back. "I thought I saw—never mind."

"Get your ass back up here. We're leaving back to Division."

William kept scanning furiously, but there was not even a footprint or an oddly bent twig. Nothing to justify what he saw. He dejectedly turned back and started back up the slope. Of course it had been silly to think otherwise. The grotesque man posing as the Batman was surely dead—they had shot him straight in the chest repeatedly, and then to survive a hundred foot drop _and _swim to shore? Swim with a chest full of lead? It was beyond ridiculous. It would take somebody with immense strength, someone not even human to survive that.

It was that final line of thinking that paralyzed William. He suddenly felt very cold to his stomach, because a hundred yards away, underneath a dinky streetlight, was a sewer manhole. And it was partially open.

There were still a few men on the bridge. William raised his hand to flag them down. He would need their help.

_And tell them what? That there's a gang of mutants down in the sewers? That a man named Roland is hiding an army down there? That the man on the bridge was one of Roland's mutated-serum fanatics?_

He was running out of time. The options were dizzying in his mind: he needed to alert someone—his police officers, his sister, his parents. But would there be time? He knew that the sewers were a maze.

But there was also a new sensation ballooning in his chest. A cross germination between humility and pride. If he went to his parents, to his sister, they would thank him but then box him out; claiming it was too dangerous for him to continue. And yet it was _he_ who had put it together. Shouldn't he take the credit?

He came upon the manhole and lifted clear the cover. It was solid iron, and weighed so much he needed to squat and heave. It fell with a mighty thud on the pavement. The hole was before him now – at the lip of the opening were half a dozen ladder rungs exposed by the light. Slowly, he lowered himself into the darkness. It would be foolish to deny his terror. He _really _did not want to go down the hole.

Behind him he heard the last of the police cruisers drive away. In the great shadow of the city he heard the banshee shrikes of the police. There was a cacophony of chopping helicopter blades. The harbor police boats were rounding around the city on the river. They were all leaving him. Or was he leaving them?

"This is stupid," he said tightly. A gurgling sound met him from the sewer's lower depths, like an invitation from a great underwater beast. He felt like he was climbing into a giant's mouth. He was scared—he knew it, objectively. He thought about that as he climbed down. He also thought about his father. This was the only time a man could be brave – when he was going into the unknown.

* * *

The chase took Emma around the city and back to the Main Avenue. From up here, it was clear to her that the Batman had taken the police for a messy circle around New Gotham. She saw the police forming silently on the Gotham Bridge, readying a trap. And the 'Batman fell for it in glorious, predictable fashion.

Emma Trevor landed, quite covertly, a few buildings away from the bridge, on the New Gotham side. From this distance, from her vantage point, she was the only one who could see the entire sham. The 'Batman' fell under the hail of gunfire and over the side of the bridge. And then, with quick, arduous agility, the 'Batman' climbed underneath the belly of the bridge. They headed towards the Old Gotham slope and disappeared into a manhole.

"So that's how it's done," she said to herself. What did she feel – disappointment? The allure of his infamous escapes lost their intrigue once the simplicity of the escape was revealed. She felt a little cheated, a little more 'grown-up.' A small part of her imagination had been sacrificed—and in return, she gained a better, less fanciful understanding of how the world 'worked.'

She had wait out the police—if she followed the 'Batman' down the manhole, the police would all see her, and in the bewilderment of the night's chase, they would declare _her _the perpetrator or an accomplice. Slowly—agonizingly slowly, the police started filing backwards out into the city. The majority of them ventured out to New Gotham, while a few stragglers, what looked like a pity pittance, went out into Old Gotham.

What surprised her, however, was her brother. He remained there on the city bridge talking with the trenchcoated Commissioner. He remained behind while the police scattered beyond him.

William suddenly started moving towards Old Gotham. He moved down the slope toward the manhole and stood in front of it for what seemed like an eternity. Clearly, he was enraptured by thought. Down at the slope, her brother tried lifting the manhole cover. It took him nearly a minute.

She wanted to laugh but she was also struck by a crude sort of realization. William was _actually _going to go down there—alone. Her brother was only a man, and from what they knew of Roland's army, they were superhuman.

But the police were still on the bridge. "Screw it," she said. Risky or not, William was going to get himself killed if he went down that sewer. She stood up and readied herself at the ledge.

Footsteps landed behind her—hard, heavy, and foreboding footsteps.

Emma Trevor turned around, slowly. There were six men standing on the roof. They wore gray uniforms—leathery and ragged, like some kind of second-hand military operation. Each of them wore gray masks to disguise their faces. It made them appear like some sort of homeless exterminator crew.

They began spanning out on all sides of her—they brought out their swords as they did so. One of them was holding a machine gun.

For a moment, Emma and the six men stared at eachother across the roof. Everything and nothing was being said in that exchange. Emma knew why they were here, and they knew she knew. It was just a matter of who would flinch first.

Emma dove to her right, making the first move, just as a hail of machine gun fire exploded on the spot she was previously standing.

A flash grenade exploded suddenly. A smoke grenade plumed. She was on the move, but so were they. The misshapen, hazy silhouettes of the men appeared and disappeared randomly in the smoke. Another flash grenade exploded—now the rooftop was an outdoor rave, and they were the bodies twisting and rocking.

It was like fighting ghosts. Suddenly there were three of them on her position. Their swords were drawn clearly in the relief of the light and smoke.

Emma reached behind into her backpack for her taser sticks, but this motion pushed the sticks further back into her bag. She rolled out of the incoming sword attacks – the collective _swoosh_ of the swordslike unseen bees circling her head.

The men were faster than she gave them credit for—almost as fast as she was. And then Emma remembered _who _she was.

She came out of the roll and slung her backpack bolas-fashion toward the man with the machine gun. The bag weighed not much but she flung it with such speed that it made for a very irritating smack in the face. The man went momentarily blind from the impact, which gave Emma enough time for her other attackers.

The five held their swords the tips pointed at her neck. Doubtless, it was meant to deter her progress. Emma very lazily grabbed the tip of the closest blade and squeezed. She twisted laterally and broke the tip off. Then she dropped it at their feet.

The men were not deterred. They attacked in unison. And Emma kept her own by dodging and fighting dirty—fighting blunt, rough, and mean. Her punches did not land flush, but they carried vicious force. She heard the audible 'oomf' of the men as they staggered back from her fists. They kept coming at her with the swords—she took several slices flush on her body. The pain was noticeable but distant enough from her current focus. She grabbed one of the attackers who had committed too much with his swing and she bent his arm inwards. A sickening crack of bone rent the air and the man fell down to his knees. But Emma was not done with him just yet – she picked him up by the pit of his left arm and his right hip and threw him at the four attackers. They did not have time to register such a wild maneuver, and they crashed like bowling pins to the floor. Behind Emma, the machine gun man was getting his bearings together. Emma rushed him and grabbed the barrel with her hand—the mental was hot and blistering to her palm—and she yanked the gun with so much torque the man flew over her shoulder and landed in a disquieting tangle of limbs with the other five men.

The machinegun lay on the floor now. Her backpack lay a few feeet away. Emma Trevor picked up her bag and slung it over her shoulder. Then she picked up the machine gun and pointed it at the men.

"On your knees," she said. Her breath was hot through the balaclava. She was sweating. "Hands over your head."

The men slowly gathered to their feet. They answered her command with the expressionless, stony stare of their gas masks.

She looked down the sights of the gun. It was impossible to miss at this range.

"Did you not hear me? Get on your head. Hands over your knees…"

Emma blinked. She suddenly felt lightheaded—like she had sipped too much wine. The gun felt heavier in her arms. So did her backpack. She couldn't breath through the balaclava—its cottony, starchy material was like sandpaper on her skin.

She yanked the balaclava from her face—delicious, cool air kissed her skin. Her skin felt flush.

The grayy men possessed a predator's instinct. They were coming onto her again, spread out in six distinct points. Six points of attack. They

"On your knees!" she commanded with the weapon. "Now!"

They kept coming onto her – their faceless, emotionless masks looking monotone and merciless. They sensed her disorientation, her vulnerability. They advanced on her position. Relentless.

The smoke grenade was still spewing smoke on the ground. A long time to be spewing smoke.

"Oh, I get it," giggled Emma. She knew it was rather silly to be giggling in the present situation—she knew this in an objective, out-of-body manner. Like she was watching the present situation from far away. "The smoke isn't _smoke_, is it?"

She heard the machinegun clatter to the ground. Her limbs felt languid. It's like she forgot how to move. The rooftop around her swam like watercolors. She was dizzy. The men were around her—looking down at her. Had she fallen to the floor?

"And those aren't ordinarymasks," she slurred. "They're _gas _masks. Very good. Very good . . ."

They picked her up and carried her body. She floated like reeds catching a ride on a gentle river. The stars were above her, moving in and out of focus, seemingly. And there was the echoing of the police caterwauling again. The police were going after the wrong people.

"Will," said Emma, she licked her dry lips. "Come back."

The stars were endless, vast, and entirely unmoved. She was speaking into infinity, into emptiness. Her brother could not hear her, but he needed to hear her. He was going to get himself hurt. She saw his frail, weak body lowering itself into the sewers—into the inverse of the stars above, into the pitiless black.

* * *

The _GothCorp_ factory was very clean and ordered into neat rows of high shelving that towered high above the clean, reflecting floor. Endless barrels of all sizes stood stacked in the shelving. There was no light except for the small quality permitted by the gaping hole in the side of the factory wall—the moonlight, the lamp posts. They moved in frustrating darkness.

"This will not do," said Roland suddenly, matter-of-factly. He came to a stop and produced a flashlight. The group behind him—Diana, Clark, Ra's, and Talia, stopped as well and waited. Then Roland got the flashlight going and sprayed the cone of light onto several barrels. "Here, column A, row B. I need five of these."

Nobody moved. Roland brought the cone of light onto the group so they were harshly illuminated. Everyone looked agitated and irritated in the sudden brightness.

Roland carefully addressed the group, like a teacher addressing a poorly-behaved class.  
"Perhaps you think that this is some bad dream? _A pesadilla? _Any moment you'll wake up, and I'll be gone? Well, this is a bad dream, one that I have had many times. Only this time, I am not the powerless one. I am not the victim at the mercy of men who have known power their whole life."

Roland suddenly stepped toward Clark. His hood nearly grazing Clarks' forehead.

"How badly you would like to hit me," said Roland in a horribly soft voice. "I can tell. And in nearly any other situation, you would be able to kill me with a blink of your eye, eh? You could shoot me with your beams and vaporize me like that wall you did earlier? Let me ask you, Mr. Kent. How does it feel to be powerless? How does it feel to have no choice?"

Roland's face was impenetrable behind the darkness of his hood. It seemed like his voice—so soft and delicious and delightful—came from the bottom of a well, from another galaxy.

"Imagine feeling this way _all _the time, Mr. Kent. It is the way I grew up. Which is why I have no problem killing your wife with your child in her belly—I could fall asleep to her screams, to your begging." Roland nodded toward Diana, "I would kill her family without hesitation, too, if you make me angry. So, for the last time, go and get my barrels."

Roland spat these last words into Clark's face. And Clark, transfixed by fury and vengeance, gazed into the void of Roland's helmet. Clark badly wanted to hit Roland—it was obvious to all of them. But finally, inevitably, Clark dropped his gaze. He walked around Roland and grabbed two barrels, one in each hand, and turned.

"Where do you want me to put them?" asked Clark. He sounded drugged, out-of-bodied.

"Outside, Mr. Kent. Through the hole you made. There is a semi-truck nearby that will serve our purpose. Put them in there."

Clark went off to the hole, with the barrels with his hands. In the darkness of the factory, in the pallor and muted shadows that hole permitted, Clark looked entirely defeated. Diana looked away—she couldn't bear to see her friend like that.

"Excellent. C'mon everyone," boomed Roland's pleased, excited voice. "Let us follow Mr. Kent's wise example. C'mon, now everyone participate!"

They all got to work. Silently, angrily, but dutifully. They passed the barrels between them, carrying and pulling and heaving and lowering. It wasn't difficult work—they all possessed the strength to do the work easily, but it was difficult in another way. Roland watched them with his hand on his belt like a proud theatre instructor watching kids perform a play.

The work gave Diana time to think. She stole glances at Roland any time she thought it safe—but she never knew if he noticed, because his hood shrouded him all the time. Diana's hatred for Roland was eclipsed only by her constant irritation, the innumerous questions nagging at her mind: how did Roland know? Did he figure it out? How long had he been planning this?. Each barrel was an opportunity to think these questions out, and at the end of two dozen barrels, Diana felt very stupid indeed: _anyone_ could have done as Roland. Her family was a walking target, a medium through which any of her former foes may claim vengeance upon her. Suddenly, Diana realized that Roland was _not _all that clever to figure it out; he not was the smartest, or the most vicious. He was simply the first to exploit this weakness.

Diana put a hand around a barrel. She planted her feet a little more securely into the floor. So she her family were a bigger weakness than she had cared to admit. No more fooling around—William would have to quit the police, and Emma would have to stay at home more, to protect her family. Diana heaved up the barrel, and as she carried it to the illuminated area of the gaping hole, she was consoled by the fact that she had a way out of this nightmare. She just needed to put her family where they'd be safe. Diana put the barrel into the bed of the truck and headed back inside. She passed underneath the gaping hole and she was back in the darkness of the factory. Roland and his grey robes were leaning against a crate.

Once her family was safe, she would deal with this Roland. She was going to make him kneel before her and beg. _No one _threatened her family.

Roland watched her enter back into the factory. "A marvelous job, Mom. If your career as a savior does not work out, you have a career as furniture movers."

Diana ignored him and got back to the barrels. Her mind was made up. Now it was just a matter of time. She kept working, keeping the anger and the sullenness on her face. Roland _thought _it was going according to plan, and she would let him believe that for the time being.

"How does it feel, _head of the demon?_" Roland's voice dripped with hate. He had shifted his attention onto Ra's. "To know that you're training led me here? To know that I've beaten you?"

Naturally, it was Ra's who had worked the slowest. He clearly despised the work as much as they all did, but he somehow deemed himself above serious exertion.

"The thing I enjoyed about you the most, Roland, is your sense of humor," said Ra's. "I'm going to kill you someday, you know. And I'm going to enjoy it very much."

"Someday? Why not right now, Ra's? Take your blade there and stab me in the heart."

Ra's smiled nastily. He leaned on a barrel. "The Princess would stop me before I unsheathed my dagger."

"Then stop talking and speed along with your work—old man," added Roland coldly.

It was clear there was no love lost between the two me. Like Clark, Ra's had to suffer his humiliation. Ra's set his cane aside and went to work with the barrels.

"Not those barrels, Ra's. I prefer you take these. The very bottom."

This demanded that Ra's bend over and reach inside for the barrels lying further in the stacks. At times, he was nearly on his knees, squatting.

Roland watched Ra's for a long time. Roland was perfectly silent, and his breathing was irregular.

It continued like that. Roland chiding them on with annoying remarks as they carried barrels. It was infuriating. It was humiliating. And there was nothing they could do about it. But of the four of them, it was Talia who betrayed no emotions. She went to her work with no resignation or complaint, and yet, Diana knew, that it was Talia bore the greatest hatred of them all. Whenever she carried out a barrel and came back inside through the gap, her jaw would clinch like she was biting down on something particularly difficult. Her whole body was tense. And when Roland had humiliated her father, Talia watched the entire exchange with a careful scrutiny that held neither hate nor approval. It was one of the more unsettling things Diana could remember seeing.

Finally, after what seemed like an endless period carrying endless barrels, Roland waved them back to the center of the parking lot.

"You've done your jobs well and efficiently. Perhaps we can work together again, real soon?"

"My family," demanded Clark in a cold tone. "How do I know you won't hurt them?"

Roland stroked the grey sash on his waist. "Relax, once we are at a safe distance, my men will leave their posts. Of course, if I suspect any of you is following me, I'll have their throats cut. Now, if you please, Mr. Kent—can you open the gate so my driver can exit?"

The loaded truck suddenly roared to life—a man in grey fatigues with a grey hood was at the driver's wheel. Nobody had ever seen him enter the car.

Clark, without a word, flew over to the gate and wrenched it open without any real effort.

"Thank you," said Roland. He slid open the cargo door of the semi-truck and hopped on.

Diana stepped forward. "How can we trust that you? How do we know you won't hurt our family anyway?"

The semi-truck started moving. Roland laughed while hanging out of the cargo-door. "My dear Princess, I won't kill your children today, because how will I curb you tomorrow? We both know that this is just the beginning of our little dance—and I haven't shown you all the moves yet."

His grey silhouette hung out of the semi-trucks like a swashbuckling pirate. The semi-truck banked a corner and disappeared. The chug of the semi-trucks' engine could be heard for a considerable distance until it slipped into the meandering sounds of the city.

"We need to leave," said Ra's suddenly. "As pressed as the GCPD is, they'll be here soon."

"I can't leave without knowing my family is okay," said Diana.

"Roland will keep his word," said Ra's. "He's an egomaniac but he's reasonable."

"Reasonable? He just threatened our families,you stupid fool!"

"He won't kill them," said Talia firmly, irritably. "He's right – they are the only trump card he has. If he kills your family, what else is stopping you from smashing his head? He needs them alive."

Diana eyed Talia. "You don't sound too happy about that."

"Because he's right," she sneered. "You two are Gotham's two greatest protectors, and he played you two like puppets—he played _us _like puppets, because we were stupid enough to join forces with you. Your compassion and your rules are weaknesses that have now infected our plans—Father, you've seen what they are. Now we need move onto the second plan."

"No, Talia," snapped Ra's. "I don't want to hear that anymore."

Clark suddenly perked his head up. "We really need to go. The police are on their way."

Diana motioned toward the gap in the wall. "How do we explain this?"

Talia began walking away to the shadows of the factory. "Sounds like a job for Gotham's Finest, no? Maybe that son of yours will be put on the job."

In all the excitement with Emma, Diana had forgotten about her son. Clark was ashen-faced.

"I have to check on Lois, Di," he said in an awkward voice.

"I understand, Clark," she said. So she was on her own. Diana pulled out her phone as she bounded away from the factory. It kept ringing.

"Pick up, baby. Please pick up."

William didn't answer. As the factory shrank in size behind them, her worry doubled with worry. She couldn't exactly explain it in words, maybe it was a mother's intuition, but she knew, with unshaking conviction, that her son was in danger.


	15. Chapter 14 - The Cistern

Chapter 14

William found himself on a service platform. Before him were a dozen access tunnels leading deeper into the underground grid. He fished out his flashlight from his belt and searched around him. Nobody had been down here in a long time, that was clear. Old radiators and sump pumps lay in the corner like disused toys in an attic. But at the foot of an adjacent tunnel he found a set of wet footprints. There could be no mistake about who left those.

William followed the footsteps guardedly. It took him down a long path, and he changed tunnels at seemingly random junctions. The sound of leaking water was relentless. His boots squeaked on the surface of the tunnels, and the smell of musk surrounded him. When he breathed, he tasted metal and steam on his mouth. And it was dark_. _That worried him. The tunnels all looked identical in the dark—nothing to differentiate their angular surfaces, their coldness emanating like dry ice. There were an endless number of tunnels. The footprints he was following would evaporate eventually, and he would have no way of retracing his way out of the maze. He could be stuck down here forever. He thought about returning – there was still enough time. But what would his parents say? What would Commissioner Gordon and Lily say? Everyone would know that he had came so close, and turned back, because he was afraid of the unknown. Because he wasn't man enough.

He brought out his gun and tucked the flashlight underneath it so that he walked with his hands out before him. He kept on like that for some time.

Eventually he heard footsteps ahead of him in the dark. He quickly turned off his flashlight and waited. He listened to his breathing and the trickling water. The footsteps did not seem to notice his presence, and they kept walking hurriedly. He did not turn his flashlight back on. He moved slowly but silently. He turned a corner.

On the opposite end of the tunnel was a small sliver of light. It lay slanted against the right side of tunnel in a straight line. A partially shut door, by the look of it.

He felt a tiny bit of relief. He wasn't going to die alone and trapped in the sewers. Instead, he might be murdered by the people he had been tailing. That didn't seem like much of an upside, but it cheered him somewhat.

Very slowly, he came upon the light. The steady sound of running water increased. Ahead of him, on the left side of the tunnel was an opening, and through which the partially door surely must be. He got on all fours and crawled to the mouth of the opening: he poked his head around and saw there was indeed a door, and it was partially shut. But through the exposed area he saw an enormous underground chamber. Along the walls were hundreds of tunnel entrances, creating what looked like a beehive architecture. William moved a little closer, and, seeing as there were no guards, crawled right up to the threshold of the doorway and pressed his cheek against the door. What he saw beyond anything he expected. The chamber extended hundreds of feet below; a huge waterfall to his left fell down to the bottom where it formed a moat around a large, flat area of land. Across this area of land were hundreds of tables and tents. There were crates of ammunition and weapons scattered about; long tables with food and medical supplies along the surface. And there were thousands of people moving about the camp. It was a small army.

"Holy shit . . ." He slowly shuffled backwards. He had to get back and warn the surface.

He heard the footsteps behind him too late. Rough hands grabbed his shoulders and brought him to his feet. There were three of them. Three men who wore grey military fatigues and what looked like ceramic armor around their chest. And they wore masks.

William struggled mightily against them, but it was useless. His captors were strong and corded with muscle. When he kicked one of them in the stomach with his boots, it felt like he had kicked a tree trunk.

They dragged him through door and down the staircases of the chamber. Their footsteps thundering on the steel grate staircasing. William tried to drag his feet to delay their progress, but they responded by quite simply lifting him off his feet. They did this with one hand each.

They reached the bottom of the cistern, and William caught a closer look of their base of operations. The army was well-furnished with second-hand equipment: the firearms were of wildly different eras, as were the swords and armor. And although they shared the collective grey unity, the army dressed in a motley of different fabrics and tones that were hand-stitched together. It was a bit of an eyesore, and it gave the army a vagabond look, as if what they wore had been picked up in bits and pieces along their travels.

They crossed the moat by a bridge and took him through the camp. William's capture elicited very few curious looks, but he certainly was intrigued by them. The ages of soldiers in the army varied wildly; some were young adolescents, whiles others had grey hair to match their uniform. Women sat and slept in cots with their swords and machine guns resting at their side. Many sick and handicapped were about as well, and William saw a great deal of missing limbs and misshapen faces in the camp. Besides the grey, the only other thing he could see that this army shared was the blank, steady gaze that betrayed nothing of their emotions. They were a hard and repressed people. They watched him without a word.

His captors threw him into a small fenced area near the bank of the moat. On the other side of the fence were a series of water outflows that led out of the cistern. His captors left him in the fenced area without speaking. Then he was alone. There was a tent across from the fence with a single man napping in a hammock. Crates and foodstuff lying around. William waited a few minutes. There were no other guards. As far as it looked, he was free to move as he pleased.

Very slowly, William got up to his feet. The waterfall made a rather reliable, unobtrusive churning sound. The current swirled around the camp and ended ultimately at one of these outflows. William stood there weighing his chances with one of these outflows. Maybe he could swim to safety.

The napping guard shuffled his feet and murmured.

"Break your arm. Don't be stupid."

The man spoke with a strong accent, possibly Russian. William didn't know if the Russian meant he would break William's arm, or that William would break his arm trying to make the jump.

"Strong water," said the napping guard. He still had his eyes closed. "Drown in two minutes."

William slowly backed away. For now, he would wait and see how everything played out.

Another guard came over. This man bore a long jagged scar across his black skin. He had a shotgun in his hand and a kukri knife on his chest. He pointed the barrel of the shotgun to the GCPD badge emblazoned on William's jacket.

"You're a pig, aren't you?"

William had his hands in the air. "Yeah, I'm a police officer."

The scarred man seemed delighted by that. He placed the gun on a crate and started rolling up his shirt. Across his abdomen was another jagged scar; and across his pectoral was a pink splotch of burnt flesh.

"I got these from you guys." The man proudly pointed at his many wounds. "Armed Robbery on Gotham Financial."

William adverted his eyes. What the hell was he supposed to say to that?

The scarred man let his shirt back down. "I'm going to enjoy killing you, little Pig. It ain't goin' to be fast, and it ain't goin' to be slow. It'll be just right."

The napping Russian made a loud, barking noise. "That is Goldilocks. Not three little pigs."

The scarred man threw the napping Russian an annoyed look before returning to William. The scarred unhooked his long Kukri knife from its sheath on his chest and tapped the blade against his forehead. He smiled crookedly at William, exposing missing, gold-filigreed teeth. Then he walked away.

William looked back at the outflow. He'd choose drowning over being sliced to death, or whatever that maniac had in mind. William shifted a little, readying his muscles for the plunge. Now he had to pick his moment.

But suddenly the cistern began to rumble. What felt like an earthquake or an far-away nuclear explosion. From underneath the waterfall appeared the grill of a huge semi-truck. It was blaring and groaning as it nimbly circled the moat and stopped at a connecting bridge.

The cargo door slid open, and out hopped a familiar figure. He was tall, thin, and cloaked in grey robes. William instantly recognized him as the man from the birthday party—the stranger who had vanished.

The napping Russian leapt out of the cot and was crossing the bridge to the semi-truck. His thick voice booming in the cistern. "About time, Roland. I was beginning to have doubt."

Roland slapped the side of the semi-truck affectionately. "I always deliver."

Behind him, two dozen soldiers were unloading the barrels of the semi-truck. They rolled the barrels to a tall white canopy tent in the base.

Roland shook off his grey robes. Then he quite calmly pulled back his hood. William suddenly felt a rushing sensation, like he was a child watching his parents naked in the bathroom. He was not supposed to be seeing this, and there would be consequences for it.

Roland looked to be about thirty—with coppery skin and a face nicked by clumsily healed scars. It made his face look cratered but intense, like a retired boxer. A set of dark, caterpillar eyebrows framing deep eye sockets—this made his forehead a bit too pronounced and intense. Lazily ponytailed hair, exposing big and vibrant ears, and his lips were plumped and full in a way that reminded William of the lipstick magazines he had seen in Emma's room. And when Roland spoke, his thick Adam's apple vibrated in his throat.

"It gets so hot in these things," said Roland, patting his hood. He then undid his ponytail, so the tasseled hair suddenly fell to an unruly mop around his cheekbones. "What word of Raul and his men?"

"They captured the girl, but she left them badly injured. Two of them have broken limbs."

Roland seemed pleased to hear that. "Of course, she did. Did they harm her?"

"No, they left her in the room with the ropes. The gas was starting to lose potency."

"Good. What about our camp, Nikolai?"

The two men walked through the camp—and immediately, William saw what was so magnetic about Roland. The Russian was clearly a foot taller than Roland, but Roland, with his hand cocked on his hip and his face relaxed, seemed to be looking down at the Russian as he listened to the status report. Roland wore authority as lazily and easily as he wore the sword at his hip. Roland's accent also had a wonderfully laxed and soothing quality—like a deep, rich wine pouring into a glass. And now, William realized another thing: Roland was not much older than William. He could have been an older brother—maybe an Uncle.

"Eight more desertions," said the Russian, presumably Nikolai. "This last batch did not arrive fast enough, they say. We caught six. Two others are still unaccounted."

"Any casualties?"

"One more near a waste facility. A girl, we think. She was taken two nights ago."

"What about recruitment?"

"More every day. Which is why we need more serum."

Roland slapped the truck again. "And here you have it, Nikolai. Get to work."

Roland started to step away, but Nikolai cut him off earnestly.

"One more thing, Roland. We have a new prisoner. A boy, looks young and fit."

"Then recruit him, my big Russian friend. What's wrong with you?"

The Russian's voice lowered. "He is GCPD, Roland."

"Oh. Then kill him," said Roland with a lazy flick of his hand. "Send me the names and profiles of our deserter, Nikolai. I'll be in my quarters."

That was all the motivation William would ever need. He climbed over the fence and took the biggest gulp of air into his lungs. Then he dove into the water. The cold was a delirious shock to his senses—the sudden muteness of the water, the burn of the vanishing air in his lungs. For a moment he was tossing in the disorienting environment, unable to tell up or down. But his eyes adjusted and there was the blurry lights above and behind him. He started swimming the opposite direction, towards the darkness of the outflows. But almost immediately his lungs started to fail him. He was running out air, but he kept kicking. He was still wearing his boots and jacket. Stupid. That would slow him down. But he just had to hold on until the entrance. After that, maybe he could ride the current.

He was at the mouth of the outflows when the vicegrip locked around his ankles. He kicked but he had no leverage in the water. They were pulling him back out of the water, squeezing his ankles so hard he was sure the bone would crack. A rush of cold water entered his nose. He gagged.

He came sputtering out like a newborn child—the world was cold, blaring with light, and his face was burning. He coughed up water and mucus. Every breath seized his lungs with hurt and a scraping humility in his throat.

Men were laughing and hooting. Then a familiar voice yelled triumphantly. "I've heard of pigs flying, but pigs swimming?! Look what I caught boys: a pig in the ocean!"

There was a chorus of laughter.

"Make it quick," boomed Nikolai's voice. "Don't let blood stain boots. Good boots."

They slammed William down on to his knees. It hurt like hell, but the pain was secondary to the furious beating of his heart: he was going to die down here, in this stupid cistern. He thought about his mother. His father. His sister. His little baby brother. He would never see them again.

Had it been worth it? He had tried to show them all his courage—his manliness. But he didn't feel very manly now. He felt incredibly stupid. Why the _hell _had he come down here? He should have asked for help. Is that what manliness was? To impress them all on your way to your tomb?

The scarred man bent down and read the nametag on William's lapel. "Well, 'Officer Trevor,' on behalf of all the young boys and girls that the police have fucked over the years, it's my pleasure to tell you that you have the right to be gutted and thrown into the water like a fish. You have the right to an asskicking, and if you can't afford an asskicking, one will be provided for you."

They tore his jacket off him. They yanked the boots off his ankles. He was in his trousers and black work shirt. The scarred man had drawn his kukri knife. He pressed it against William's throat.

William shut his eyes. He didn't want to see it coming. His heart was beating furiously—like a panicky soldier communicating in code: _no, please, no please, no please, live, live, live. _

Was it worth it? To die like a man? William waited for the death blow—would it hurt? Would it be painless? He was only twenty-one. Such a silly age to die.

But death never struck. William waited on his knees, his eyes shut, for what seemed like an eternity. He didn't want to move, he didn't want to believe. This was a trick, some sadistic ploy to give him hope, and as soon as he dropped his guard, when an inkling of hope trickled back into his mind, and he opened his eyes, they would deliver the blow.

But the longer he shut his eyes, the longer the moment stretched. Angular shapes and Rorschach figures came to him while his eyes were closed. They burned his eyes with their clarity.

"Trevor," said a voice in the darkness. "Did you say his name was Trevor?"

That was Roland's voice. He sounded dumbfounded.

"Yes, sir," said the scared man's uncertain voice. "His name is 'Officer Trevor.' Why, is there a problem?"

"Unbelievable. You almost did you something incredibly stupid, Mr. Jacobs. Almost."

Suddenly the cistern went completely quiet except for the waterfall and a pair of deliberate, steady footsteps. The footsteps stopped directly before William. And then there was breathing.

"Open your eyes, William Trevor. Let me look at you."

William opened his eyes. The muddy hem of Roland's grey robes swayed before him.

"Look up at me, William Trevor."

Was this the same cruel joke? Where they going to slit his throat as soon as he tried getting to his feet? William had no way of knowing. He kept looking at Roland's hem.

The scarred man unleashed a soccer kick at William's ribs. "He said look up, pig!"

The blow threw William onto his side. Now the pain from his knees totally vanished, and in its place was the gasping, guttural pain in his side. William writhed on the grate.

"Mr. Jacobs," said Roland in a cold tone of voice. This made his accent sound throaty and breathy. "Did I ask you to attack this prisoner?"

"W—what?" demanded the scarred man, apparently named Jacobs. "You said he was mine! He's a fucking pig. He's mine."

Nikolai the Russian suddenly stepped forward with menace in his eyes. "Roland asked you question, Jacobs."

Now the rest of the camp had turned on Jacobs with their hard, unfeeling stares. Jacobs looked around haughtily but with an undertow of uncertain in his eyes. He didn't want everyone to see that he was scared.

"Mr. Jacobs, go to my quarters and read the dossiers on the deserters," said Roland in a lighter tone. "Perhaps that will whet your appetite for bloodletting."

Nikolai, and the rest of camp, glared at Jacobs—and Jacobs, seeing that he had a reasonable excuse to leave, took it. He walked away with a loathsome look in his eye. "Fucking pig," he muttered, putting away the knife that would have killed William.

Roland knelt down and waited patiently for William's pain to subside. Roland's eyes were partially hidden underneath prominent eyebrows, but they were unflinching in their scrutiny. It was like being watched by a bear in a cave.

"Get up, William Trevor."

William very slowly got to his feet. He was aware of the camp's gaze on him. Nikolai the Russian was watching him curiously.

Roland looked at the nametag across William's chest. Then he very delicately put a hand to William's chin and examined him more thoroughly. William remained silent the entire time.

Roland's face soured with displeasure. But he looked assured now, like his mind was made up. "Dammit. Somebody get me a towel. And some new clothes."

Immediately a parcel of bundled clothes was produced. Nikolai carried a towel and handed it to Roland.

Roland placed the towel atop the bundle of clothing. He offered this to William.

William slowly accepted the bundle. He was half-expecting it to blow up in his hands, or for someone to kick him in the ribs again. But nothing happened. Roland stood there watching with a _'Well?' _expression on his face.

William dried himself with the towel. He undid the bundle and began changing into the clothes.

This seemed to satisfy Roland, and he stepped a few paces away while whispering to Nikolai. Nikolai disappeared into the camp and reappeared with five important-looking members. They seemed of a higher rank because their robes were garnished with medals.

Roland spoke with the five men for several minutes while William got dressed. The clothes in the bundle were old and they smelled like it. And they were unsparingly gray. But they were warm and dry. William pulled on the pants and shirt first. The coarse fabric itched his skin. He put on the boots last. He was finally able to stop shaking from the cold.

Finally, Roland dismissed the five men. He walked back with a far more relaxed gait— the roll of his shoulders, the swing of his hips, reminded William of an eel or a snake.

"Those clothes suit you," said Roland approvingly. He was looking William up and down like a proud parent. "Much better than that fascist garb you wore earlier."

Roland paused to let William have a turn at speaking. William stayed silent.

"Do you know who we are, William Trevor?"

William remained quiet.

Roland chuckled—it was a sweet, raspy sound. "Speak boy. Rest assured, if we wanted to kill you, Mr. Jacobs would already be wearing your skin as a new shirt."

William swallowed the lump in his throat. "You were part of the League of Shadows. This is your army."

"Very good. Do you understand what we're fighting for?"

William shook his head. "No, not really."

"I can tell that you're lying, boy," said Roland. His voice had the barest hint of severity; a portentous amount to warn of a greater wrath within. "And I don't like liars."

"You're going to poison everyone with your serum," said William. "You think it's going to save the world."

"Much better," said Roland. He was smiling again. "But you are only half right. We are going to save the world, but we will not poison anyone. Look around you – do you see anyone dying of poison?"

"I've seen what it does to people," said William in a hollow voice. "I was there at the Waste facility."

Roland's face soured briefly—for the moment, it lost all of its playfulness. "That was unfortunate. But what is one casualty on our part against the hundreds of lives destroyed by the greed of this city? You say you're a police officer? Let me ask you a question: why don't you call it 'murder' or 'homicide' when a child dies from inadequate medical attention? The best hospitals in the world are here in New Gotham – yet the poor are denied treatment to the poor, and your citizens are fully aware that these people will die without that aid. How can this not be murder?"

"Murder is a deliberate, intentional act," said William, remembering the civil definitions from his police exams. "Those examples you gave—they're not deliberate between two people."

"What could be more deliberate than refusing help to someone, William Trevor?"

William could not meet Roland's eyes. There was too much emotion in them, too much power. It was like being struck by a tidal wave. William would be swept off his feet it he looked at those eyes.

"Is it not the responsibility of those in power to take care of those _without _power, William Trevor?"

"I don't make the law, I just—" William had no idea what he was saying. But he knew he didn't want to make Roland angry. "I'm just saying that those in power aren't directly responsible for every bad thing that happens in this city."

"Indirect," repeated Roland. "Very much like how I _indirectly _killed that girl by the waste facility, no? Those men, although they are deserters, were part of _my_ army. I should be responsible for their actions, no?"

"I—I suppose you should," said William. He had just called Roland man a murderer.

But Roland seemed delighted by that answer. "Now you see, William Trevor. The laws of your society are cleverly designed to expunge the rich and the powerful of their culpability for the slow decay of its citizens. It is an ornate and bizarre calculus, yet once pulled back, the equations are quite simple and fundamental."

The waterfall of the cistern churned along faithfully underneath the cadence of Roland's words. Behind Roland, there were a group of huddled men waiting patiently.

"Do you know what they call me, William Trevor? The nickname, not my actual name."

William nodded. "The Gray Paladin."

"My real name is Rolando Moran. I was named after one of King Arthur's famous knights. They called themselves paladins. But do you know why I chose _grey_?"

William shook his head. Roland rubbed the grey sash on his belt affectionately.

"It is because it is the most detested color. Nobody likes it, nobody looks good in it. It inspires no passion, no love, no hate. It is neutral. And in that way, it represents the only truth about the world worth knowing. Do you know which truth that is?"

Roland came up to William's face. The scars on his face were shallow but extensive on his skin. They looked like many craters and rivers of geography, etched into flesh. Like Roland wore his world travels on his body—the pain, the lessons, the horrible events that made Roland as he currently was.

Roland's breath was hot and rank on William's face. "That there can be no room for emotions in our business."

William gulped again. "Our business?"

"Yes," Roland stepped back. His hot breath stepped back. "When you joined the GCPD, you joined our business. Your family, living on that hill, is part of our business. Everyone and anyone who benefits of the status quo—is in our business. It is the business of the world—the way of the world. Nikolai, if you please."

Roland was addressing the men huddled behind him. Nikolai came forward with a small leatherbound casing. He handed it to Roland.

"Let me ask you a question, Trevor," said Roland. He opened the casing. "If you were in my shoes, would you let yourself go free?"

It was a trick question. If William said yes, he was begging for his life. If he said no, then he was lying and trying to deceive them.

"No," said William. "I wouldn't let myself go."

"Smart boy. But neither can I kill you – for reasons I cannot explain, but be assured that they are quite unconditional. That leaves me with two options: I can keep you here a prisoner indefinitely, and risk your eventual escape – which I am sure you would do, considering your tenacity and bloodline."

Roland produced a syringe from the casing. He held it expertly in hand. "Option two is we let you go . . ."

Roland plunged the syringe into a vial and pulled back on the hammer. Very clearly, black liquid filled the barrel of the syringe.

" . . . just not as you currently are," finished Roland.

William suddenly realized what was happening.

"Seize him."

Three men grabbed him. Two men took William by the arm each, while the third rolled William's sleeve up to his arm. William raised himself and kicked at the air but it was useless. The men stood stoic-faced as Roland approached with syringe, and William fought, pleaded, and finally begged for mercy.

"Stop! Stop!" screamed William. "Don't put that in me. I've seen what it does! Please, kill me instead!"

Roland eyed William carefully. "What have you seen?"

"I know what it does," said William hoarsely. "It drives you insane. It makes you an animal."

"This medicine saved my life," said Roland coolly. He brought the tip of the syringe up to William's bicep. "It's the only thing saving yours now."

William let out a terrible scream that might have ripped his throat.

The syringe disappeared from his bicep. Roland was watching William quietly.

"My associates wanted me to kill you, William. We can't risk having you alert the police to our location. And you would, wouldn't you?"

William panted. The adrenaline was making his head light.

"I'll take that silence as a yes. But, I can't just kill you. It would ruin years of planning."

"Why?" croaked William. It was the only question he could think of. He had to stall. Anything to stay Roland's hand.

"You'll see. In time, everything will be made clear to you. Look—"

Roland raise the sleeve up his own arm. There was a blackened scar by the vein in the crook of his arm. "This was five years ago. And look at me. Do I seem 'an animal' to you?'"

William panted. He looked at the scar, he looked at Roland. There was many things that Roland was—a psychopath, a misguided idealist. But he was rational. He was a person.

"No," conceded William in a voice he did not recognize.

"I need you to calm down in for this to work," said Roland. "If you struggle, I might miss the vein. And that _will _hurt."

"Okay."

"Are you going to calm down?"

"Y—yes."

William felt himself crying now. He was trembling. Roland stood back, his lips pursed.

"Give him a drink."

Nikolai stepped forward. He looked earnest. "Roland, we are wasting time—"

"That was an order," said Roland icily. But he was looking at William with wide, open eyes. It felt strangely sympathetic.

They quickly produced an earthen bowl and it was brimming with a golden, heated liquid. Roland very carefully brought it to William's lips—the aroma stung at William's eyes; a strong, honey alcohol. He sipped the liquid, expecting a terrible burn, but instead felt a nice warm sensation in his chest. He kept sipping and Roland kept upturning the bowl until the liquid was completely gone.

Roland put the bowl away. He picked up the syringe. William felt like a blanket was over his chest.

"Now hold him."

The men seized William tightly, but William was no longer struggling. He was quiet, timid, watching the syringe like a dog in the kennel—subdued and tamed. The syringe slipped into William's bicep easily, and Roland pressed down on the hammer.

"No," said William in a voice so soft he was unsure if it was his.

The whole event lasted less than a second. Almost immediately Roland was stepping back, holding the empty syringe in his hand. Now it was a fact. The poison was inside of William. There was a burning sensation in his arm—pleasant, muted, like a massage.

"I am sorry about this," said Roland in a polite voice that did not sound sorry at all. He wiped the syringe and put it back in the casing. "But if your family is any indication, you might just become our greatest student."

The burning sensation at his fingers and slowly spread up his arm. It spread through his chest and down the rest of his body. There was a pressure underneath his skin, waiting to surface up, like he was pumped full of hot air. William's head began to feel heavy. He blinked. That was odd. The world was upside down.

"Give him fifteen vials of the serum. That should last him until the next phase."

William felt himself sinking into the arms of the men beside him. They were the only thing holding him up. His eyes closed. He felt like sleeping. Now it was only black, just like the sewers from earlier. The square and angular shapes came to him again in the blackness, but they were humming with evanescent energy. They seemed to be speaking to him.

"Risky move, Roland," said Nikolai's voice. "Father might be mad. Mother, definitely."

Roland's response was like a whisper at the far end of a cave. A cave William unwilling fell deeper and deeper. "Better to have a sick son than a dead one. He'll understand, comrade. As for the mother. There's nothing she can do. We're too far gone now."

William kept falling. He was in the cave with no other voices and only the angular shapes coming at him like comets. He was shivering, and he was hot. And there was nobody nearby to help him.


	16. Chapter 15 - The Walk of Shame

Chapter 15

Emma Trevor emerged from her unconsciousness with the acrid taste of pine and bleach on her tongue—a revolting, gagging taste. Everything was wrong. Her head weighed more than her entire body, and she struggled to keep her head balanced upright on her neck. She was restricted to short, shallow breaths – anything more than that was unbearable, because the taste of the pine and bleach was deep in her lungs.

Slowly, Emma took in her environment. She was in a plain enough room: water-stained walls and the dusty outline of furniture. A single lightbulb hung directly above her. The ugly yellow light it permitted was caustic to Emma's eyes. Who had left it on? And beneath the lightbulb was a wooden chair. Pieces of rope and tape lay around the chair. So she had been tied to that chair?

Getting to her feet was like an advanced calculus—it demanded all of her attention, and still she wasn't good at it. Emma lost her balance and tittered over, but she aimed her descent towards a wall and supported herself against it. The wall smelled like mold and dampness. This, combined with the pine and bleach on her tongue, made her vomit all over the floor.

Every breath drew up more of the acrid taste from her chest cavity. It was endless. They must have drugged her for a long time. But she was Emma Trevor, daughter of Diana of Themyscira—_shouldn't I be immune to this?_ Emma leaned against the wall and focused on her thinking, on her breathing. Of course, she was superhuman, but she was still _human. _It only stood to reason that she could be drugged by obnoxiously large amounts of gas.

She rode the wall down to the floor and fell asleep with her back against the wall. When she woke up, her head no longer felt strange. It felt balanced on her neck, and weighed like any normal head should weigh. She tried breathing again – the pine and bleach taste lingered. But standing was no longer an impossibility. Emma slowly pushed off the ground, riding the wall with her back, and stood there, leaning against the wall, and breathing.

The memories came back to her, but in reverse order. She remembered the rooftop fight, the chase through the city, and finally, the conversation with her mother.

"Shit," groaned Emma. Her mother was going to murder her.

There was a single window in the room. It was cracked and stained with mineral deposits from water. Emma caught an image of herself in the reflection. The caustic light of the bulb did her no favors: was that really her drab and sunken face in the reflection? Her hair knotted and threadbare like a spider's web? She looked horrible, but then again, she _felt _horrible.

Beyond her reflection, the black dye of the night was fading rapidly, like bad ink in a printer. Early morning was coming. She had better get moving.

Stepping out of the room brought her to a dimly lit hallway. It stank of piss and there were cans and wrappers littered across the floor. The doors on either side of hall were missing. Emma Trevor walked down the hallway and caught a glimpse into each of the rooms—stained mattresses, discarded clothing, and big piles of garbage bags. But there was nobody breathing, nobody moving quietly in the hallway rooms. She would have heard them—the silence was intense, making her every movement magnified and precipitous, like something sudden would happen. At the end of the hallway was a narrow staircase, she took the steps carefully, avoiding the grime and litter along the steps, and came out into what looked like a lobby. There was a reception area, and a dozen plastic seats lined up by a bulletin board. But everything was ruined and pilfered— upended vending machines, rings of ashes by burnt-black barrels, more mattresses, and many empty cans laying hollow and empty on their sides.

This place was home to many without a home. But where was everyone? Emma walked through the lobby. Some of the newspapers laid down for matting were recent publications—only a few days old. Emma found a small sack of forgotten soupcans and bedding. The people had left in a hurry.

Emma came out onto an empty street. An old railroad track stretched laterally to her left and right. The gravel underneath the track was stony and mute. To her left and right were blocky buildings in similar disrepair. The gas rose up again in her esophagus—a disorienting surge of groundless and unmoored spinning. Where the hell was she?

She breathed forcibly– this time risking a greater pull from her lungs. The acrid taste was there alright, but the nausea had lost its total grip over her. She raised her head to the sky—the stars were still out, and the two constellations she _did _recognize hovered above her, a little to the left of the city: The Big and Little Dippers. Their twin sweeping handles curved outwards and opposite of eachother, like interstellar ying/yang, or a celestial dualism. Two opposing forces swirling and evading and forever connected. Black/White, Big/Little, Brother/Sister.

_The North star sits at the end of the Little Dipper, Emma. And if you can't find the little Dipper, just look for the Big one. It always hangs around it—like me and you. _

"Okay, Will," said Emma. She spoke to the night sky. And true to her little brother's word, there was Polaris, the north star, hanging around at the end of the Little Dipper.

She headed west on the train tracks—the tracks ran on a longitudinal axis to the north star, making her walk a simple but austere journey. Nothing but stony rubble and reeds along the tracks. The night air was cool and tasted like dust and tin—she occasionally lost her footing on the stones and gasped in a sharp breath that stung her chest. She kept her head down, minding her footing like she would watch David when he was crawling on the floor. The tracks ran reliably west—the north star never shifted, and suddenly she looked up and the long riflebarrels of the New Gotham skyscrapers appeared on the horizon. That was a wonderful, reliable thought, like the mast of a ship she could hang onto during a storm. Yes, she felt horrible. But she also felt the rising sun on her right cheek.

The dawnlight was fully awake when she reached the bottom of the hill. She trudged up the steep incline, her arms tucked in securely under breasts to control the nausea, as the morning mist caught the sunrise and sprinkled the trimmed neighborhood lawns a fairy-tale gold. Any other day, she would have fallen in love with mist, stopped to enjoy it and be thankful for it—but today, the mist reminded her of weaponized aerosol. It made her tuck her arms a little tighter into her sides, made her grimace. Now the hill was awake with activity—cars pulling out of their driveways, people going to work and parents taking their children to school. Everything was colorful and vibrant— the daffodils, the cherry blossoms, the garden gnomes on the neighborhood lawns; the children in their pressed school uniforms, their gaudy backpacks, and the parents walking in polished shoes, getting into waxy-chrome cars. Now the walk became a long exercise in humility— she was still in her all-black attire, her black boots, her black hair knotted and sullen, her face wan and sallow. She looked like a hungover goth queen; a black alleycat slinking home after a nighttime of underworld activity. The drivers behind the windshields and the children in the backseats did not try to hide their judgement when they saw her coming up the sidewalk—their heads turning on swivels, their eyes long and judging and amused. Emma ignored them. She kept her arms tight against her body, and focused on her breathing. The acrid taste was faraway on her tongue now, and every breath expelled from of the poison out of her lungs.

A lurid sports car came racing around the corner. Emma spotted it at the same time the driver spotted her, because as it came abreast of her, the windows rolled down, revealing a pair of young men in suits and greasy haircuts. The men stuck their heads out and hooted: "WALK OF SHAME!" and kept honking and hooting as they drove down the hill.

She did not know those boys, but now they knew her. Everyone on this hill, in her neighborhood, would forever remember this moment—and no doubt hold it against her in the future. It didn't matter that she went to work everyday on time, it didn't matter that she always dressed like a professional woman. One night had wrecked her reputation. But that was alright. A superhero needed a sharp contrast, a ridiculous alter-ego, right? Now everyone believed she had spent the previous night at some stranger's house—an amoral one-night stand after cocktails at a bar. Let them think that—let them think she was a deviant, or a mistress or a man-eater or a loose woman. It only made her disguise better.

She finally made it home. Her key was gone, but just for sheer audacity, she tried the front door anyway. And it opened.

Cautiously, Emma went inside her home.

"Mom? Dad?"

She closed the door behind her, and the sound of its closing rebounded in the lobby. It was an unsettling emptiness. A probing, intergalactic silence. And from it, Emma knew, with undying certainty, that nobody was home.

There was no landline in the home, and she hadn't lost her phone when she lost her bag. She got on her laptop and sent her mother an email: _Mom, I lost my phone but I'm safe at home. Where are you guys?_ She then forwarded this email to her father and Lucius. In the kitchen she yanked open the fridge and downed an entire carton of cranberry juice. She didn't bother with a cup, just drank straight from carton. On the kitchen island were mugs of half-finished tea. There was the kettle on the stove. She touched mug – it was room temperature. But the kettle was very, very faint with warmth.

She headed into her bathroom and stripped off the grimy, sweat-smelly clothes. Standing naked, she twisted the knob on the shower to the hottest it would go until steam clouded the bathroom. She carefully slipped underneath the jet of water, moving by inches, letting her body adjust to the heat, while the steam surrounded her, until her entire body was underneath the water. Her skin turned pink and raw from the heat and her scalp prickled. But it felt good. She was like that for a very long time.

After the bath she was starting to feel decent again. She dried her hair, put on a comfortable pair of jeans and a cotton t-shirt, and went downstairs to the kitchen. She grabbed a bagel and cream cheese out of the refrigerator. She didn't bother with a spread knife; Emma tore off pieces of the bagel and used the curve to scoop out loads of the cream cheese. She munched and opened her laptop.

There was a message in her inbox. It was from Lucius:

_Emma, _

_We're very worried about you. Your mother and father are with me at Wayne Enterprises. We found William. I'll come for you in an hour. Stay put._

There was only one important sentence in Lucius's email: We found William. Those three simple words were the cypher to the mystery of the empty home, and Emma's mind worked furiously to decode the clues: so William was at some point missing, and he was missing for a long enough time for Alfred to make tea, which Alfred would have made in order to calm everyone down—this meant that there was panic and uncertainty.

Emma looked at the mugs again—on the kitchen island and half-empty. Her mother would never have allowed for that. She believed in washing dishes as soon as they were used, in keeping the house and kitchen clean. If there were dirty dishes lying about, it was only because something more pressing had superseded her mind. It meant that everyone had left the house in a hurry.

Emma put the rest of her uneaten bagel to the side. She was no longer hungry. A low, churning anxiety was developing in her belly. Lucius had written 'we found William,' which meant that William had _been_ found, which meant he was most likely unconscious or dead.

Emma picked up the mugs and wiped the kitchen island. She cleaned the dishes. Time was not passing quickly enough—each moment was a slow, molasses-like opportunity for the fear to roil in her organs—yet somehow time was passing too quickly—everytime she looked at the clock the hour struck closer—soon she would hear more news concerning her brother, soon enough she would find out if he was alive or dead. What was it William had once told her—something about a scientist and his cat? As long as the box remained closed, the cat was neither alive nor dead. And Emma felt the same about William: as long as she cleaned up the kitchen, as long as she remained in the kitchen and kept herself occupied with cleaning, her brother was still alive. He was still his grumpy, sullen, totally insecure self.

Emma was organizing the sugar and flour in the cabinet she had punched when she heard someone else's breathing. Lucius had quietly entered the kitchen.

"Lucius," said Emma with all of the custom of a normal visit. She kept working fixatedly on the cabinet. "Hello."

She spoke like if she had not expected him, as if his visit was a pleasant surprise. She did not want to turn around and read her brother's status on Lucius's ashen, apologetic face.

"Emma," said Lucius' voice, the sound was throaty and worn-out. "What happened? We were looking for both of you last night."

"Is she mad?"

Emma meant her mother, of course.

"She was," said Lucius.

This confirmed the terror in Emma's mind: something seriously awful must have happened. Her mother was no longer angry, but scared.

The jangling of car keys. Lucius must have brought out a handful. "We don't really have time to waste, Emma. Your brother, he, is—"

"Dead?" offered Emma in a tone that sounded neutral and objective. She was trying to ready herself for the blow.

Lucius spoke on an outhale of breath. "No. Your brother isn't dead. Thank God."

But nothing about Lucius's response sounded 'thankful'—he still sounded like a man giving terrible news. What had happened to William? What was _worse _than death?

She heard the rustle of Lucius's clothing, like he was rubbing his hands over his head.

"We really need to go, Emma. Are you ready to go?"

"Yeah, I'm ready," she said, turning away from cabinet. "Let me just—"

Lucius suddenly closed the distance between them. His hand was on her chin, and he was standing over her, looking down at her face.

"My god, Emma, what happened to your face? It's colorless."

"Like a vampire," she tried to say cheerfully.

He carefully examined her, gently directing her head by her chin. "Your pupils are dilated. And your reaction time is slowed."

"My reaction time?"

"Just right now, when I put my hand on your chin. You didn't even flinch."

"I—"

"And your pallor—it _is _like a vampire," he continued. His hand fell away from her face; the examination was over, and his diagnosis readied. "Emma, did someone drug you?"

Lucius read the answer on her face—"Roland," he said quietly.

"Wait, how did you know it was—?"

But Lucius was on the move. He was racing around the kitchen island, heading back to the living room. "Your brother. Something similar has happened to him. We have to go."

"Wait, Lucius—" she diligently followed him out of the kitchen. "What about Will? Was he drugged too?"

Lucius opened the front door. His black leathery skin looked several shades paler in the sudden morning light. "Not drugged, but poisoned. We received an anonymous tip and found him near a dam. He was unconscious and wearing strange clothes."

Emma closed and locked the front door behind her. "Grey clothes?"

Lucius's foot scraped the pavement underneath him—a moment of disbelief, of hesitation.

"Roland," confirmed Emma. Her mind was on the men who drugged and kidnapped her. They all wore grey.

"We've taken him back to the company for treatment," said Lucius. He rounded the driver side of his Lexus (the same model that she had driven and crashed earlier, Emma noted). "Your family is waiting for us there."

Emma opened the passenger door. "What do you mean treatment? And why are you taking him to the company if he's sick – why not a hospital?"

She ducked into the passenger seat—Lucius already had the car engine racing. They pulled out of the driveway and raced down the hill. Lucius drove like a man outrunning death himself. Emma had never seen him like this before—clothes disheveled, eyes bloodshot, nerves shambled. And from the weariness sagging at his cheeks, he hadn't slept in the last 24 hours.

Outside, the Gotham skyrise was a beautiful azure dappled with white cloud puffs—a peaceful, picturesque scene that suggested picnics in the park and late morning brunches on balconies. Emma looked out the window—it was Sunday. She noted this fact like a bored zoologist watching animals on a safari drive.

They drove into the city. The aftermath of last night's events flashed across the jumbotrons and metro station screens: news anchors and debaters speaking into the camera, their mouths moving furiously, indignantly, and uncomprehending. Scenes from the police chase intercut these debates—the grandiosity of a helicopter's birds-eye view of the police caravan; a boots-on-the-ground intimacy of a shaky eyewitness camera on the streets. And there were the countless interviews of terrified and exhilarated citizens all asking the same question into the camera: _is he back? Why kidnap the Commissioner? What is going on? _

They drove through the city. Pedestrians moved in masse on the city sidewalks—people going to work, people living their lives. This was not a surprising occurrence in Gotham City—the city was always packed in the morning—but it did surprise Emma considering what had happened the night before. The Batman's sudden return was a rupture to the daily routine of the city, but clearly Emma overestimated that rupture—it was more ripple than wave. Life was still going on. Lucius drove. Emma watched. Neither of them spoke, but they both contributed to the suffusing calmness overtaking the cabin of the car: a buzzing but lurking energy, like an underground powerline. Another surge of wisdom was overtaking Emma: the same steadying numbness she experienced while watching the 'Batman' escape on the bridge. She was growing, her childhood dying. Becoming more and more attuned with the worried, anxious faces of the adults and citizens on the sidewalks. Her worry was also their worry—the question on everyone's mind (it was in the shiftiness of their eyes; the nervous upturn of their lips): _Are we going to be okay?_

"Lucius, what the hell is going on?" she finally asked. Her voice sounded froggy and croaky. She tasted the fruity tang of morning breath on her tongue: her mouth had been shut for a long time.

Lucius carefully glanced at the rearview mirror—a gesture that spoke for the gravity of the situation. But this careful, clandestine paranoia looked natural on Lucius. He seemed worried in an objective, far-away way—like a seasoned General absorbing bad news about a small, negligible loss of men.

"Roland kidnapped your brother last night. He injected him with his serum."

Emma gently closed her eyes. Everything in the city was too much: too noisy, too flashy, too jumpy. The loud billboards, the pungent smog, the brassy blaring of car horns. Suddenly the acrid taste of pine and bleach surged up her chest cavity—she smacked at the door and Lucius, seeing her gagging face, pulled the car over to the sidewalk.

Emma puked up the cream cheese and bagel mixture, the _chug chug_ coming out of her throat violently, like a dormant volcano erupting. Her head spun, the horrible aftertaste of vomit clawed at her throat. An unmoored, weightlessness overtook her body, like she was freefalling. And then there was Lucius's hand at her shoulder. He pulled her back into the car.

"Easy, easy, Emma."

"Ugh," she answered him. She pushed the seat back: deeper and deeper, she sank until she was nearly parallel with the car floor. The car hummed underneath her: its engine steady and vibrating. It was oddly comforting.

"There's a pharmacy right down here, do you want something?"

She waved her hand. Her eyes were closed. "No, no. I'm fine."

There was a steady silence. Somehow, down here, the commotion of the city sounded muted and far away, like it couldn't hurt her anymore.

Lucius put the car into gear. It made _clicking _sounds. "We're almost there, Emma. Hang on."

"Lucius?"

"Yes?"

"Can we not drive for a second—just for a second. The motion, the engine, it's too much . . . "

The car shifted back into park. "Of course, Emma. Of course."

"They drugged me, Lucius. Roland's men. Gave me some kind of chemical agent."

"Don't talk, Emma. Just breathe."

"No, it helps, to talk. It's the breathing that sucks. I taste the pine when I breathe."

"Pine?"

"Yeah. Whatever they put in me. It tastes like—"

She made a sudden sucking sound. The taste resurged in her chest. She was going to vomit again, it was so overbearing.

"Emma—move, lemme get the door—"

"Wait, Lucius—" the taste faded away, as quickly and suddenly as it had appeared, like leaves vanishing around the bend of a fast river.

"Are you okay?"

She knew, somehow, that she was okay again. She set the seat back upright. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just drive. I'm fine, Lucius, really."

He looked at her uncertainly out the corner of his eye. Emma opened the glove compartment.

"Do you have any napkins?"

Lucius opened the center console. A package of tissue paper. Also: a bottle of mouthwash.

"Nice," she said, taking both in her hands. "What else do you have in there?"

Lucius put the car into gear. He was shaking his head. "I'm an old man, Emma. Bad breath and all."

They drove to Wayne Enterprises, and Emma told Lucius everything that had happened: leaping across the skyscrapers, the fight on the rooftop, and waking up in an abandoned building in Old Gotham. Lucius's expression gradually became more and more wide.

"They could have killed you, Emma. Or done worse."

"I know," said Emma darkly. "But they didn't."

"But they didn't," agreed Lucius.

They rounded about Wayne Enterprises and pulled into the underground garage. Lucius looked into the rearview mirror again—nobody behind him. Then he pushed a button on his steering wheel, and the gate to the underground garage began to close behind him.

"Hey," said Emma, looking into the sidemirror. "Why are you doing that?"

Lucius's reserved parking space was the closest by the elevator. He parked the car at his space.

Emma went to open the door. Lucius shook his head. "Hold on, Emma."

He pressed another button on his steering wheel.

"But what are we waiting for—?"

There was the sound of pistons firing and the car suddenly began sinking into the floor. Emma g whirled around in her seat, amazed, while Lucius remained sitting, completely nonplussed as if he were waiting for the light at an intersection.

They journeyed downwards, via a dark and unlit chute. The only illumination coming from the dashboard. Lucius's silhouette barely discernible from the dark shapes of the car seat. The car vibrated securely underneath their seats—or perhaps that was the movement of the elevator chute. Very gradually, like a morning sunrise, the cabin began to come into visibility. Feeble light brimmed along the exterior of the lift. They were almost there—where ever _there _was, and then, quite matter-of-factly, the car buckled on the ground floor. The lift had stopped.

Emma had to hold her hands to her eyes for several seconds to adjust the sudden brightness.

Lucius unlocked his door and stepped out. "We're here."


	17. Chapter 16 - The Bunker

Chapter 16

The elevator lift had lowered them into a bunker—spacious, intensely lit, and high-ceilinged. Endless rows of crates and cabinets and tables extended down the middle of the bunker, stacked with military equipment, measuring instruments, and other scientific wizardry. Along the rightwall of the bunker were a series of hangers housing tarp-covered vehicles. Along the leftwall was a bureaucratic setup: neat desks, filing cabinets, large printers, and a gigantic computer monitor mounted to the wall. On the screen was a large map of Gotham with several red highlighted points of interest.

All of this Emma noted with a muted interest. The dreaded focus of her eyes lay at the far-end center of the bunker, where a dozen beds, monitors, IVs, and other sterile instruments made what looked like a hospital wing. The beds were all unoccupied except one. A curtain had been drawn around it, and at the foot of the bed were five people: Talia, Ra's, Alfred, Steve, and her mother.

The party of five stood around the bed with somber expressions—everyone except for Talia, who was standing far enough away to avoid being accounted for as 'one of them.' Talia was in attendance the same way a housecat would watch unfolding events: from a distant high perch, completely uninterested and judgmental.

The fabric of the curtain drawn around the medical bed was thin, and with the overhead lights of the bunker, permitted the vague silhouette of the person laying on the bed—thin, bony, and scrawny. Emma recognized it as William immediately, but for some strange reason, she was still holding onto hope; still believing in a radically unlikely shift in events, like a storm suddenly blowing away, or an explosion that miraculously leaves a soldier unharmed. The party of five heard her coming. Four of them shifted their eyes onto her—relief, recognition, and regret on their faces. But Emma's mother, standing at the edge of bed, watched William's body with unblinking steadiness. It was as if she was deaf and did not hear Emma's footsteps.

"Mom," said Emma, stopping a few feet away at angle that exposed William's feet behind the curtain.

Her mother remained completely unchanged—it really did seem like she was deaf.

Lucius walked past Emma. He came around the medical bed, looking down onto William's reposed body. "How is he? Are the steroids working?"

Steve, ashen-faced and solemn, shook his head. "I don't know. I talked to him, I think he squeezed his hand—Emma, come here."

Her father turned to her, and Emma realized that little David was asleep in his baby bjorn attached to Steve's chest. Little David napped peacefully, with his mouth a little open and his entire body relaxed in the bjorn, completely unaware and unaffected by the group's anxiety.

Steve awkwardly hugged Emma with one arm—it was because of David attached to his chest, Emma knew that, but the hug felt artificial and distant, like Steve no longer loved Emma as his daughter. It was like hugging a stranger, and the weary, sagging quality of Steve's face only added to the impersonal quality of the hug.

"What happened?" said Steve. "We were looking for you last night." He was clearly too tired to be angry—but still he asked with the authority and demandingness of a parent. He expected her to answer honestly.

"I—" Emma looked away from her father. The other members of the party, Ra's and Talia and Alfred, turned their heads like swivels onto her, and they were waiting. She felt the pressure, the spotlighted centerfocus, and with this intensity came a swooping vertigo—another bout of lightheadedness that threatened the acrid smell of pine and bleach.

Alfred came hurriedly around to Emma's side. He very gently took hold of her arm and directed her to a chair away from William's bed. "There, there. She's clearly in bad shape like her brother. Lucius, prepare an IV? Let's get you in a bed, Emma, dear—"

"No, it's okay, Alfred, really," she said, sitting down. Now she was looking up at all of them, and the spotlight sensation intensified. "I don't want to be in a bed. I don't need an IV."

Alfred looked like he wanted to argue; he looked to Steve for support, but Steve dully shook his head. Lucius suddenly appeared with a syringe in his hand. He bent over her.

"No, Lucius, please, I don't want—"

"I'm not giving you anything, Emma," said Lucius calmly. "I need to take some blood, to study whatever it is they put in you."

"Oh," said Emma. She suddenly felt very stupid. "Okay."

"Did they inject Emma as well?" said Diana suddenly from the foot of the bed. Her body stiffened like she had suddenly taken a big gulp of air, like there was a surge of electricity passing through her.

"No," said Lucius. "I don't think so. From what I've gathered, they drugged her with a depressant, possibly an anesthetic. That's why she is so faint."

Diana's stiffness deflated, and with it, her interest in the discussion. Her eyes, her complete attention, had returned to William.

"Roland did this to you?" said Steve. He glanced cautiously at Diana, part worry and party uncertainty for his wife's trance-like rage. "He drugged you last night?"

"No," said Emma. She watched as Lucius injected the syringe—the vial rushed with thick, scarlet blood.

"Well, who then?"

"Six men, on a rooftop," said Emma. Lucius pulled away the syringe and patted her vein with a cloth.

"'Rooftop?' What the hell does that mean, Emma?"

"I—"

Ra's Al Ghul suddenly stepped forward – his boot making a loud, heavy sound on the slate of the bunker. "These men—grey uniforms? Somewhat shabby looking?"

"Y—yes," said Emma, staring a little at Ra's sudden outburst and foresight. "And they wore masks."

Ra's lips curled distastefully, but he said no more.

"Why didn't they kidnap her instead?" said Talia. She clearly asked this of her father, ignoring everyone else. "She's the stronger of the two. The better ally."

"The better question is why Roland hurt them to begin with," muttered Ra's. "He gave us his word he wouldn't—but now that he did, he's burnt his only trump card. And the game has just started."

"Game?" snapped Steve. "This isn't a game, Ra's. My children are in the hospital right now—one of them might die, dammit."

"He isn't going to die—"

"You don't know that!" hissed Steve. He had to keep his voice down with David sleeping at his chest. This, combined with the weariness on Steve's face, gave Steve the air of a hysterical, underslept, over-reacting parent.

Ra's narrowed his eyes, his lips wiggled for a moment—he seemed to be fighting the urge to laugh. "You're right, Mr. Trevor. I apologize."

For a moment there was quiet—Emma, Alfred, and Lucius astounded that Ra's would actually apologize, and Talia retaining her seething, nonverbal judgement with her vicious, slitted eyes.

Alfred put a hand on Emma's shoulder. "Would you like to see him?"

In the rush of everything, Emma completely forgot the reason she was here: to see her brother. Emma quickly, instinctively, looked at the other men in the room—Ra, Steve, Lucius. They all said nothing, but their faces, understanding and solemn, all somewhat spoke of the same tacit agreement: see your brother.

Carefully, hesitantly, Emma stood up out of the chair. She came up on Diana's shoulder, and beyond lay her brother on the bed. What she saw hit her so hard it seemed to separate her soul from her body—an out of body experience, and she saw everything from an outside stranger's perspective. She noted everything with an objective, distant lens:

Head cocked to one side, eyes closed, bruises along his clavicle, and a partially opened mouth gave him the appearance of a found corpse. Swollen, swarthy patches of bruising surrounded his eyes—like messily-drawn racoon eyes. The color of his skin, normally a pale but healthy white, was laced with black, gangrenous lines that ran across her brother's forearms and, she was willing to bet, extended across his entire body. He looked worse than death—beyond it and already decomposing. But the slow rise and fall of his chest told Emma that life clung to her brother. He was still alive.

She supposed she should be crying—but she didn't want to cry. Why wasn't she crying? Her brother was lying, half-dead, and she wasn't crying—what kind of ugly, mean sister would react in such a way? This, and many other errant thoughts, she considered in the same objective, out of body manner. Try as she might, the tears would not come: the shock of seeing him in such a state dried up any watery emotion in her. But what she did feel was ugly guilt—it caught in her throat and would not let her breathe. Vice-grip, choking, throbbing guilt.

Death had coming looking for her little brother, and Emma was not there to head him off. She was the strong one, she was the tough one, and yet, she had failed him, too.

And from this objective, out-of-body perspective, Emma saw that her mother had reached the same conclusion as well.

"Mom," began Emma, but she couldn't speak, the words caught like drying cement in her esophagus. "I—I'm so sorry, If I had known, I would have—"

Diana, again without wavering her gaze, slowly put a hand around Emma's shoulders and pulled her into an embrace. It was a mother's bearhug, and Diana held it long and silently. Emma heard her mother's breathing – loud and ragged and dragging, like a wounded giant.

"You lied to me, Emma," said Diana in the farthest, faintest voice Emma had ever heard. It was like the words echoed out of Diana's chest. "I asked you to watch your brothers, and you lied to me."

The hug tightened, and Emma felt the faintest trembling from her mother. For a split, lurid moment, Emma thought her mother might snap her neck—choke her, suffocate her.

"They took your brother. They took him and I couldn't do anything. And then they took you. They had the _both_ of you."

The hug, already punishing, intensified. Emma was struggling to breathe—but was it the guilt, or the hug?

The heartbeat monitors hooked up beside William beeped steadily, and though each mechanical beep served to reassure them of William's life, the mechanical, unfeelingness of the beeps also reminded Emma that William's soul was no longer independent. His existence depended on an outside force—on machines, on Roland's serum. The brother she had, the son, the police officer, was forever gone.

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

"You lied to me," said Diana steadily, calmly. This tranquility only made the worry in Emma's stomach worse. Emma had never heard her mother speak this way—like she was no longer Emma's mother, but an outside person.

The hug vanished. Matter-of-factly: a timer had went off and it was time to end the hug. Diana stood back from the foot of the bed and, speaking calmly, seemed to address the entire room.

"You lied to me, too, Alfred. You told me she was home."

Alfred stiffened, but he did not try to hide nor excuse himself. He had a tired, miserable expression on his face. A helpless resignation.

"And what about you, Steve. Did you know as well?"

Steve, who up to this point was trying to read the expression on Emma and Alfred's faces, suddenly shook his head. "I had no idea, Di."

"I believe you," said Diana. It was unclear who she was talking to – she was not looking at any of them, nor was she looking at William's bed. She was looking at some far off object in the bunker. Some unknown, invisible source of her anger and scorn.

"I'm going to take care of this," said Diana curtly and confidently—how she said _this _was like she was dealing with a flat tire or a spilled cup of coffee. "And then, after, I'm going to deal with you—all of you."

Emma gulped – what was her mother going to do to her?

Ra's Al Ghul stepped forward. "The worst of it is over, Diana. I understand your—misgivings—but we mustn't do anything rash. We need to work together."

"No, what _I _need to do is what I should have done at the beginning," said Diana dispassionately. "Strike first—hard and fast. Last time we played by your rules, and it went against every military tactic I know. You cannot wait and let someone prepare their defenses. I will not make that mistake a second time."

"But you are," said Ra's angrily. "You're still thinking about your children—it taints your judgement, makes you predictable. As long as you base your decision making upon the care of your children, you remain vulnerable to Roland's coercion."

"He is not going to threaten my family again," said Diana. Her fist was clenched, and she was trembling. "You can bet your life on that."

Talia suddenly came up beside Ra's. She was sneering. "My father's right – the smart thing would have been to slit young William's throat and bury his body. But he left him alive, and he injected him with his serum. Why? Because he expects you to react the way you are reacting right now. And you're going to get yourself killed."

"We should wait and work together—strike from a position of strength," said Ra's. "Your daughter will likely make a full recovery, and your son's condition will improve quite dramatically. If we wait, we will have a better chance of victory."

"I already told you once, Ra's," said Diana softly, the hostility swimming in her voice like a shark in shallow water. "My children will not be involved."

She gently took William's hand. It was cold, like death. His breathing was ragged but stubborn—the poison run his body was trying to kill him, but he was fighting it. He would fight it until he died. He was a fighter—he was _her _fighter. She kissed his forehead – his skin sweaty and scabby and tasting sour. Inside that kiss was a promise to him. A mother's promise. She was going to destroy the man who hurt her baby boy.

"I'll need a few things from you, Lucius," said Diana, straightening up from the kiss. "From the applied sciences division."

"Diana," said Lucius slowly. "Maybe we should discuss our options—"

"That was an order, Vice-President," said Diana coldly.

Lucius looked helplessly to Alfred and Emma; to Ra's and Talia; finally to Steve. But no one was going to help him. He sighed and got up from a seat. He gathered his things in a suitcase.

"Steve," said Diana. "I want you to stay in this bunker—all of you. Emma, little David, and Alfred. Stay with William. Don't go outside until this is all over."

"Fish in a barrel," said Talia scathingly, mockingly.

"I agree," said Ra's, although he threw an irritated, displeased look to Talia. "Your family will be vulnerable here."

"This place has more security countermeasures than any other place in the city," said Diana.

"Not exactly true," coughed Lucius. "There is one other place."

Alfred, Lucius, and Diana all exchanged a tacit, underhand look.

"Out of the question," said Diana. "Too many bystanders."

"Oh, and a building full of people has no bystanders?" said Ra's sarcastically.

"They'll be safe here," said Diana flatly. "At least more safe than at the manor."

"I'm not staying in here," said Steve matter-of-factly. He was tousling David's hair fondly. "I'm not going to let a bunch of poorly dressed terrorists ruin our lives, Di. We can't give in."

Diana, very slowly, closed the distance between herself and Steve. She approached with such a hostile intensity that Emma, and perhaps Steve—judging by his uncertain, fearful apprehension, thought Diana was going to punch him.

"I'm not asking you," she said finally. She was staring lovingly in his eyes, but her voice, pleasant with anger and rage, did not sound loving. It sounded like someone who expected to be obeyed.

Steve, quiet for several beats, shook his head. "Di, don't . . ."

Diana turned next to Emma: Emma expected another show of force, but Diana simply gave them a death glare—one that spoke of disappointment, of bitterness, and of discipline to be dolled out at a later time: _I'll deal with you later. _

Finally, Diana turned onto Ra's and Talia. They were expecting it, and were standing with their hips swung and laxed, more amused than reprimanded.

"I haven't forgotten what you did to my children," said Diana. "When I'm done with Roland, and if you're still here in the city, there will be a reckoning to pay."

Ra's eyes narrowed. "Your son made his own choices, Your Highness. I followed your directives to the letter."

"This never would have happened if you hadn't come to this city. Nobody asked you to involve us in your problems."

Talia let out a sudden snarl of disgust. "This is war, you dumb bitch. Nobody ever _wants_ it to come to their home. Do you think you're the first mother to lose her son to the unjust, amoral sword of war? While you were on that stupid island holding tribal orgies, my father and I spent that time fighting wars that would make a million mothers cry. Your son is still _alive_. You can hug him and kiss him and spank his behind. You should be grateful for that."

Nobody, as long as Emma could remember, had ever spoken to her mother like that. But Diana, staying within her chosen theme of restrained, cold fury, was expressionless. The thin upturn of her lips could almost be misunderstood as amusement.

Diana made to walk around Talia, but Talia cut her off.

"If you go at Roland alone you're going to get yourself killed," said Talia. "Your friends are right. We need to plan an effective strategy if we're going to bring Roland down. He's smart, he's ruthless, and he's a tough bastard to kill. Trust me—my father and Ihave been trying for years and we've failed. You think _you _are going to fare any better?"

Diana looked down at Talia. "Get out of my way."

The threat was there and simple: a promised observation; a matter of fact. And Talia, to her credit, looked mad and orgasmic with desire. The luridness was brilliant in Talia's eyes; everyone else in the bunker seemed to shift their bodies away, in apprehension, at the inevitability of the that fight would break out. But slowly, with the air of a taut bowstring slowly unwinding, Talia's relaxed into a distant apathy; she had come to an understanding, a realization.

Talia stepped to the side, and Diana, followed by a resigned Lucius, walked on to the center of the bunker. They came before an elevator hidden as a support column. They pressed a button and stepped inside. Emma caught her mother's expression just before the elevator doors closed: murderous, focused, and completely self-absorbed. Emma did not recognize that woman.

When the elevator doors closed, Talia was still looking in Diana's direction. Talia looked satisfied, superior and smug. She looked back at her father with this expression, and Ra's suddenly appeared pale and defeated.

"So what now?" said Steve suddenly. "We're supposed to live in here for the next few days?"

Alfred shook his head helplessly. "Diana's love may be suffocating, but she isn't wrong. There are more than enough supplies for all of us in this bunker. And the security systems are quite up to date. You'd have to destroy the building to get to us down here."

"But what about David?" said Steve. "Is there baby food down here? Diapers? A crib?"

While Alfred and Steve went away to wrestle things up for the baby, Emma went back to look over William. Looking at him closer now, his lymph nodes were swollen like chicken eggs; a pus draining out of sores along his shoulder, and he smelled fruity like bad morning breath.

Ra's came around to the other side of the bed. He was looking at William.

"Roland has been a user for three years. Your mother and I saw him last night. He was in perfect health."

Emma almost laughed—was this Ra's Al Ghul's bedside manner? Was this his way of expressing sympathy?

"Think of it as a treatable condition," he continued in a voice that was supposed to sound sympathetic, but instead came off as factual. "Like diabetes requiring regular injections."

"But my brother wasn't _born _with a treatable condition," said Emma angrily. "This isn't some unlucky thing. Somebody did this to him."

"And what are you prepared to do about it?"

This question caught her off-guard. She looked up to find Ra's watching her carefully—not unkindly.

"How did you manage to get yourself caught last night?" he asked.

"I—I made a mistake."

"Obviously," sneered Talia from a nearby stool.

Ra's threw Talia an annoyed look. He turned back to Emma. "What I mean is how did they subdue you? From what I've gathered, you take after your mother's Amazonian gifts. How did they—"

"They had gas masks," said Emma dully. "I thought it was just smoke. A distraction."

"Ah."

His emerald eyes swam all over—scrutiny and consideration, like a gambler watching a spreadsheet. He was carefully weighing something, but he was anxious, greedy.

"If your mother fails, you'll be the last Amazonian in Gotham City, Emma Trevor. The last line of defense. And now, you've seen what those things can do, what Roland can do. Imagine an entire army – what do you think your mother's chances are?"

"And be honest," added Talia from her stool. "We'll know if you're lying."

"Talia, that's enough of your comments."

Emma paused, thinking it over: fighting six of Roland's men was tough enough, but Emma was not a seasoned warrior. For all intents and purposes, that was her first real fight, and she thought she was doing quite well, up until the end. Her mother knew how to fight, had been in fights, she could easily dispatch with six men.

But an entire army of those men? As strong and fast as Emma? That made things a little harder to predict.

"Precisely, Emma Trevor," said Ra's, reading the doubt on her face. "I can see you have a good brain as well. Because we trained Roland, and we trained the Dark Knight. You know this. Surely, you know about him?"

"A little," lied Emma.

Ra's smiled knowingly. "And what have you heard?"

"I've heard stories about him. I'm not sure if they're true but—"

"They are. Even the more ridiculous ones. But go on."

"I've heard that he was amazing. That this city worshipped him."

Ra's moved a little closer, almost leaning over William's body now. "And what has your mother said about him?"

"She said . . ." Emme was not sure if she should answer him. There was something traitorous about revealing what her mother had said about the Bat. And yet, a twinge of fury went through Emma: a bitter, vengeful resentment toward her mother. It was completely unfair. Emma only tried to help because her mother had embarrassed so much in the kitchen. Emma just wanted to prove herself—but nobody wanted to give her the chance. Nobody seemed interested in what Emmawanted.

But this man currently before her, Ra's Al Ghul, did seem interested.

"She said he was the best she ever saw," she said hoarsely.

Ra's nodded approvingly. "And he was only a mortal. A regular man. You, however, are quite gifted. Can you imagine what good _you _could do if we taught you those skill sets—"

"I think that's enough," said Alfred all of a sudden. He had reappeared with diapers in his hand. "We've nearly lost one Trevor today, Ra's. We are not going to risk another one. And I'm warning you - if Diana ever hears what you just said to Emma, she'll kill you, too."

The manner in which Talia suddenly twitched made it look like she was more than ready to try Alfred's test. But Ra's gracefully relented. He stepped away from William's bedside.

"Of course. It was absurd of me. Emma, my dear, please forget everything I just said. We won't disturb you two anymore."

Ra's and Talia both left towards the same elevator. But Ra's was a clever man, he knew what he was doing. Once an idea takes root, it is impossible to unroot. And Emma, as try as she might, could never forget his words. They itched in her head. And she could not help but scratch them: Ra's Al Ghul saw something in Emma. He believed in her abilities—and it made Emma feel _good. _She detested how much it delighted her. She knew what Ra's was—a snake, a twisted leader of men. But it didn't change the way his words soothed the wounds caused by her mother, by her family.

And at the elevator, before the doors were about to close, Ra's was watching her. His green eyes were steadily fixed on her – a knowing, tacit look in them. And to her surprise, Emma did not look away.


	18. Chapter 17 - The Wonder Woman Returns

Chapter 17

It was quiet when Diana opened the door. An ugly, foreign-sounding sound. In her two decades, only one other time when the home was quiet as this—the day they had purchased it. That's when the manor, and the life it portended, was still a window of opportunity: wide, sweeping floors, untouched kitchen counters, and vacant, spacious rooms. The home was simply waiting to be filled up, like warm air gradually swelling up in a balloon. A world of possibility—of opportunity. A household symphony of music and performance always announced her return from work: loud pop music coming from Emma's room; the colorful palette of the TV screen from the Living Room with Steve sitting excitedly on the couch; the tea kettle whistling in the kitchen as William read a book; little David crying mutedly from his upstairs room. It was an odd program music: regular, uninteresting scenes from family life; disharmony and chaotic, but familiar-sounding and homely.

Now there was only silence. Diana walked through her home. Not even a clock stirred. Her footsteps were loud and relentless on the wood flooring – like the marching, monotone pace of a slasher-villain in the horror films Emma liked. Diana suddenly stopped at a wall—would they ever see a movie again, as a family?

She made her way down into the basement. She didn't lock the door behind her—the house was empty, that was obvious, but also, she didn't have to hide _it _anymore. The secret was out, the danger was in. And everyone knew what needed to happen next.

A rack with unused bicycles and fishing tackle ran along the left wall of the basement. On the right wall was shelving with neatly organized boxes of household necessities: cookingware, bedsheets, and holiday decorations. Curios—all of it. This was no longer a basement but a museum: a columbarium; a crypt: a housing site for other-worldly artifacts and ancient relics; alien bric-a-brac and prehistoric cairns; objects as pertinent to her as the Sahara-desert to a goldfish.

What business did _she _have being a mother? What use did she have for weedkiller, spatulas, bedsheets, sauce pans, Christmas trees, printer paper? The pairings were comical: bathroom cleaner and hosiery; diapers and lightbulbs, ceramic pots and fishing rods. Did she really believe she could switch her life that easily? Exchange her sword for a spatula? A shield for a sauce pan; her breastplate for an apron and her tiara for a soccer-mom visor?

Her old work desk covered the middle wall. Diana almost laughed— _woodworking._ What had she been thinking?

She cleared the desk's surface of all the propane and sterno cans; she pulled the massive desk to the center of the basement, where the lighting was best. Then she started on the rack of bikes and fishing tackle. She was careful with the first bikes: bringing each one down with both hands extended like she was handling delicate porcelain in a temple; setting it down with great ceremony. Then she got to William's bike—a bright red 10-speed— and as she grabbed the spokes and the hollow frame, an almost gravity-tested certainty seized her: he would never ride that bike again.

She flung the bike over her shoulder; whirling in a delirious dervish, and the bike clanged against the shelving of the household curios. She hurled the fishing rods next; ugly, unbalanced throws; her throat raw from screaming; her eyes brimming with hatred.

Boxes fell to the ground and spilled their contents over the slate-floor, like gutted soldiers fallen onto their sides, bleeding: folded bedsheets, throw pillows, toothbrushes, winter boots, batteries, holiday resort mugs, ugly needlepoint sweaters, detergent, electric extensions, hair curler, lampshades, coffee tins, trash bags, award badges, a winged cherub holding a bow-and-arrow.

Her eyes fell on the winged cherub: a porcelain Cupid gifted to her by Steve, many years ago. A gesture of love, a promise of never-ending domestic bliss. Had he lied to her? Had she lied to herself? She was a warrior; an army princess; groomed and born for battle like Julius Caesar and the north Star: destiny, inevitable.

She pressed her back against the now empty rack. She slid down to the basement floor:

How could she have been so stupid? She had let her guard down. She had let her family down. It was inevitable that they would come for her children. And she did _nothing _to prepare for it.

That winged cherub posed joyously with its bow-and-arrow: puffy thighs pivoted like a ballerina and a mischievous face aiming down the line. The cherub lay curled on its side with the chaos and clutter surrounding it the floor: it looked perfectly at place and content, happily-responsible for the domestic discord it's love-blinding arrow had caused.

Love. Blinding love: drug-high love. A love she inhaled and lived on, nurtured like a potted plant until it swelled up to the sky, higher than any beanstalk.

And this was the fall: the precipitous, crashing, harrowing fall. It hurt, this side of love. Give your heart away, and watch it crushed and squeezed underneath a hammer until the veins splutter and the result is a mushy redpile of tendons: _here you go, here is your heart back, we did warn you, didn't we? Those dreams, those nightmares—you knew better, but you did it anyway—was the high worth the fall? What a bad investment, huh? Pour everything into your family, your children, and what do you get back? A dying son, a lying daughter. No interest, no capital gains, no profit—no wonder you are hurting, it was a bad investment from the beginning. Now you're back at the beginning. A warrior-woman, not a mother-woman. No wonder, woman. _

Diana stood up off the ground. She ran her fingers along the edge of the rack, where it connected to the wall, and found the small gap. She pulled.

The rack swung away from the wall, revealing an alcove cut three-feet deep and six-feet wide. A glassy pane covered the alcove: inside the lay a sword and a shield, a pair of gauntlets and cuisses, and a crimson breastplate and fauld. A silver tiara sat on a plush pillow.

The glass pane caught Diana's reflection, a woman Diana nearly did not recognize: messy and oily hair, skin drained of all color, puffy cheeks from crying, lips chapped and trembling, eyes sunken. That woman was Mrs. Diana Trevor—mother, wife, and CEO. She had just lost her family.

But that was not whom the world needed—whom her children needed. They needed Diana of Themyscira, the warrior princess. An Amazon of lore. But she was trapped behind the glass; imprisoned in this basement, buried beneath all the domesticity and housewifery of toothbrushes and diapers and lampshades. And she would have to be exhumed.

Some strange, splitting force suddenly seized control of Diana's body. It directed her movements, and Diana saw everything distantly, as if her soul was no longer in her body, but was in an in-between place, waiting. She saw herself open the glass panel. She heard blouse and jeans fall to the basement floor—those were Mrs. Trevor's clothes. A sudden draft of air was cool on her naked flesh – but it was faraway, like a breeze crashing upon a nea,rby window.

She put on the breastplate and fauld. They felt a little loose in some parts and tighter in others. Had she gained weight? Had she lost muscle? Across the breast was a gold insignia in the shape of a W – who was that supposed to be?

Next she put on her gauntlets and cuisses. They were scratchy on her skin, and she needed to replace the leather. Leather never lasted that long, no matter how well polished. The warrior-princess would have remembered that.

She pulled out the sword and the shield. They felt strange in her hands. Did she remember how to use them? Very experimentally, she thrust her sword, she swung her shield, all underneath the light of her basement. A far cry from the training grounds of her island.

Last, finally, she lifted the tiara up off the pillow. It was loose on her head—a looser than she remembered. But the she remembered, three weeks ago, she and Emma had gone to a stylist. They had thinned out her hair for a 'sleek, textured' look.

She took her armor and weapons to the work desk. The sword was sharp as the day it was made. And the shield bore nicks and scratches from past fights. She searched in the cabinets of the work desk and found the mineral oil. She polished her sword.

The truth was this: the little boy who once fit in the crook of her arm, who once looked up at her with eyes innocent and defenseless as only a newborn baby could, was hurt. Really, really hurt. And Diana had allowed that hurt to happen. If she had taken thing seriously from the beginning, if she hadn't buried Diana of Themyscira, then maybe—just maybe—her son would be upstairs in his bedroom, his usual sulky self, instead of that poor, suffering creature on a gurney.

She polished the mineral oil on the sword, using a clean cloth and without pressing too hard on the sword. It was hard not to think about Bruce. Ever since the news flashed with the return of the 'Batman.' (She put the sword away, replacing it with the shield. She dabbed the cloth with the oil and rubbed the shield) Of course it wasn't him—Bruce had died, in her arms, twenty years ago. Those were his two children: William and Emma, both of them inheriting his hazel, warmsoft eyes. She was supposed to protect his children—theirchildren. That was the promise she made to him; dying, crying, in her arms.

In the oily reflection of her shield, Bruce's dead, disappointed eyes flashed up at her. _How? _

Someone entered the house up above. The door opened and shut and then the silence.

"Di!?" called Clark's faraway voice.

Diana put the cloth and mineral oil away into a cabinet—she shut it hard and loud enough for Clark to hear. Clark's footsteps suddenly started heading to the basement—the source of the noise.

She picked up her sword and shield. There was no going back now. Down came Mrs. Trevor, up went Diana of Themyscira. She headed up the stairs, but halfway to the top, she turned around and surveyed the basement: so many boxes and contents thrown on their sides, her jeans and blouse lying discarded on the floor, and the rack still swung open, the empty alcove exposed and ransacked. It looked like something terrible had happened; a violent robbery, a sudden kidnapping, a messy murder. She couldn't leave it like this. Diana walked back down the steps, carefully tiptoeing around the strewn household items—she felt like a crime scene investigator stepping around evidence— and picked up her discarded clothing. She put the bundle into the into the alcove behind the glass pane. She shut the glass and swung the rack back into place.

That's when Clark appeared at the top of the stairs.

"My god," his footsteps came to a stop on the landing. "Di, what the hell happened . . ."

Diana turned around—tiptoeing again through the mess, and headed up the stairs.

"Di, are you okay?"

She reached the landing. "What are you doing here, Clark?"

Like her, Clark was also dressed for the occasion: he wore his Kryptonian battledress with a powerful S emblazoned across his chest. A royal red cape hung behind him. It spoke loudly for what he was doing here.

"Steve called me—as did Lucius."

"Fine." She walked past him toward the living room. "Just don't get in my way."

"Wait, Di, there's something you should know—"

Steve was waiting for her in the living room. Little David was in his arms. Lucius was in the corner, ashen-faced and guilty.

"I thought I ordered you to stay in the bunker, Steve," said Diana quietly.

"Ordered me?" repeated Steve, half-laughing, half-disbelieving. "Di, listen to yourself."

"We're at war, Steve." Diana moved across the living room, twirling the sword in her hand, bracing the shield on her forearm. "Sometimes we have to do mean, but necessary things."

Diana caught a glimpse of herself in a wine cabinet: long tresses of raven hair; filigree breastplate; golden shield and silver sword; crimson combat boots; fierce-focused eyes; ugly curled lips. An impressive, terrible sight. Steve instinctively backed away from her—he held little David protectively in his arms, shielding him away from Diana.

Diana stopped in her tracks. In the reflection of the cabinet, it looked like she was some merciless mercenary, and Steve the helpless villager, asking for mercy.

"Di," said Steve finally, looking at Diana with a far-away fascination. "What are you . . . what are you doing?"

"I'm protecting my family, Steve," said Diana in a strained voice, as if she could not imagine such an illogical question.

"It's _our _family, Di." A slight tremor of anger and fear went through his voice. "And we need you here_. _Your children—our children—need their mother here."

"No, what Diana Trevor's children need is a mother—a _real _mother, Steve. A mother that will protect her children. Like a bear and her cub; a lioness. They'll kill and die to protect their children."

The conviction in her voice was unshakable truth. Rage and focus wrapped around love like a tightly wound scarf: it was enough to choke all of the men in the room, make their eyes hurt from its severity. They wouldn't—couldn't—understand what she meant. They were men. She saw it in their wide, afraid, uncomprehending eyes. They were both afraid and in awe of her strength.

Diana suddenly turned to Lucius. "Did you bring what I asked?"

Since the moment she walked in, Lucius had not moved an inch in his corner of the room. Perhaps he thought he could go unnoticed, or that Steve could take Diana out of her decision.

"Well?" she asked again, somehow sounding more terrifying and punishing.

Lucius traded a helpless look with Steve. But neither of the men were going to stop her. Reluctantly, Lucius set the briefcase on a table and opened it. There lay a tray of gadgets.

"Two earpieces, standard issue radio transmitter, and a GPR. It's all here, Diana."

Clark suddenly came up to the briefcase. "Do we even know where Roland is hiding?"

"Yes," said Diana. She took the data-pad in her hand. "When we found William by the dam—"

Her mind broke with flashes of the memory—William: sweaty, translucent skin; gaunt-stretched cheeks, convulsions; eyes rolling back; shivering, black tendrils crawling across his torso like venomous spiderwebs. Damp but feverish. She seized him: wake up wake up. Mommy has you, my son. Please wake up. Suddenly the shooting dread took hold of her: a low and probing and numbing sensation in her belly. Was he going to die? My son is going to die. Please god why—

"Di?" said Clark patiently, nervously. It was like he had been repeating her name.

Diana blinked; snapping out of the trance. "When we found my son, he kept saying one word. At the time I didn't understand what it meant, but after speaking with Lucius . . . "

Diana activated the datapad: a holographic, three-dimensional grid sprung up from the screen; Diana manipulated the screen with two fingers, spinning it like a globe on an axis.

"Sewers," said Clark. The blue light of the hologram hummed on his face.

Lucius was pale in the blue light; like a sick, hungover man in a nightclub. "There's a large cistern at the bottom of the city. Technically, it's abandoned, but there is activity in the chasm. It's not in line with GCWP service hours."

Diana found the cistern on the datapad. There were dozens of bright red dots along the bottom.

"It could be clay deposits or more piping," said Lucius earnestly. "It doesn't mean that he's there, you know. If I had more time to put more radars around the city, I could—"

"That's him," said Diana, shutting off the datapad. "Let's go, Kal-el."

"Diana," said Steve suddenly, quietly. He stepped a little closer, juggling David in his arms. "I understand what you're doing, love. I really do. But this isn't you. You're not rash. You're not emotional."

"Emotional?" laughed Diana, sounding bitter and mirthful. "Do you know what emotions I feel, Steve?— all of them. Ever since the birthday party, I felt it: the nervousness, the fear. I knew something was coming, Steve. I saw it coming like I know a mug will fall over the edge of a counter. And I did _nothing _about it, Steve. Do you understand? Could you understand? I let William and Emma go about in the city without their mother's protection—and look what's happened. I'm not going to make that mistake again—my son already paid for that. His mother saw the danger and she did nothing. So—" she added suddenly, her voice becoming deathly sharp, like an unsheathed dagger. "I'll warn you, Steve; I'll warn all of you. Tonight, I'm going to find Roland, and I'm going to run over anything and anyone who comes between me and the object of my duty as a mother—friend or foe, husband or not. Do not get in my way."

Steve stared at Diana as if he did not recognize her: who was this imposter, wearing such a maniacal mask of love? This woman had the same face, same hair, same skin as Diana Trevor; but the eyes, the geyser-blue irises; quivering with energy, ready to erupt and destroy, were different. This was certainly not his wife. Was this who he had been married to all along? A Jekyll-Hyde dyad? An elegant, graceful ballerina who, once scorned, morphed into a violent, single-minded bull?

Diana turned to her cold fury onto Clark. "Are you ready to go?"

Clark stood a little away from all of them, wearing the uncomfortable expression of a man waiting for his marching orders. "I'm ready," he said in a voice barely audible.

That was all Diana needed to hear. She headed for the door.

Steve cut her off at the door. This jarring movement stirred little David awake.

"I'm not going to watch you kill yourself, Di. Think about what Ra's and Talia said: think about what Roland _is._"

"—the latest in a long list of very sorry men," said Diana, stepping around Steve. Behind her, Clark followed, looking miserable and apologetic. But Steve doggedly kept abreast, and the jostling irritated little David greatly – he was crying at the violent commotion.

"Dammit, Di, think about your friends!" yelled Steve over the baby's cries. "This city already has enough dead heroes! Think about your children, your husband. For god's sake, think about Bruce!"

In all their time together, only two times had Steve directly brought up Bruce: once, when Steve and Diana were just starting off, unsure of their relationship dynamic—was Steve a Step-father? Would they tell the twins the truth about their father? And the second, when William was sick with mononucleosis in high school, and the doctor needed an accurate genetic history. Both instances were marked by a pawing hesitation; a slow, tacit agreement that neither Steve nor Diana would press too hard on the subject. She had never told Steve _explicitly _the truth of Bruce Wayne_: _but Steve, after tagging along with her to Wayne Enterprises, after talking with Lucius, and Alfred, after seeing Wayne Manor—and the cave that lurked underneath. Well, Diana was sure Steve suspected, had his own thoughts. They would lay in bed together, orbiting the subject like a planet swinging close to the sun, but never touching—and then ricocheting back away, until the next go-around when they'd speak of it again.

Steve's outburst had temporarily shifted her focus. It was designed for this—a last-ditch effort, a long-saved trap.

"What about Bruce Wayne?" she said.

Steve was breathing heavily, his eyes a little unfocused; as if he himself was dazed by his own daring. Little David, too, had quieted down a little by the sudden silence in the room.

"You made a promise to him, Di. Before he died."

Diana stared, half-furious, half-dumbfounded. How did Steve know? How _long _had he known?

"I've heard you in your sleep, Di," said Steve, slightly apologetic. "I never wanted to bring it up."

"And what do you think he would do, in my present circumstances?"

"He would—"

"Be honest, Steve."

Steve's eyes fell to the ground. Diana nodded, satisfied.

"Exactly. I'm not going to sit on the sidelines anymore, Steve. I'm going to do something."

"But our children, Di," said Steve hoarsely. He sounded like a battered boxer, swaying in the ring. It was this tone of voice—defeated, drugged, and beleaguered—that made her hesitate.

Little David was awake and miserable on Steve's chest. Diana took David into her arms and rocked him. He was looking up at her with his blue eyes. He was the only one of her children who had _her _blue eyes. His red, puffy face; little pudgy hand reaching out for her chin. Wonderous.

"I—I'm sorry for yelling, Di," said Steve finally. "But you can't go out there. You know you can't."

Lucius suddenly shut his briefcase most dramatically. He finally decided to make known his concerns.

"Please listen to your husband, Diana. He loves you. He wants the best for you. If not for him, do it for that amazing baby you have in your arms. He deserves to grow up with a mother."

Clark remained silent; however, this silence seemed to add to the consensus of Steve and Lucius, like an abstention in a proceeding that helps

Diana ignored them all. There was only herself and David in the room. She rocked him gently until his eyelids grew heavy with sleep and they closed over his eyes. Now he slumbered peacefully, knowing he was safe in the arms of his mother. It was the magic surrounding all mothers that appeased the little baby. His little arm fell back to his side. He was asleep; a mushy little pile of heartbreak. A slumbering Prince. Her son.

"Do you remember when William and Emma were this small?" asked Diana quietly. "Do you remember that?"

She asked nobody and everybody this question. She was talking to herself and the room. Steve shifted in his stance.

"Of course, I remember, Di. They were beautiful."

"It's amazing that children grow up to be so tall," continued Diana. "It's almost like magic – that a baby could fit in my belly, and fit in my arms, like David, and then grow up to be an adult. Isn't that amazing? Isn't that magic?"

Steve opened his mouth to agree, but then he shut his mouth. He watched.

"You don't know what it's like, Steve. None of you do—and it's because you are all men," said Diana. "You don't know what it's like to have this child in your belly. To feel it growing in there. To feel it kick at night. Sometimes its unbearable, the pains and the nausea. At the time, I didn't think it was worth it, to be honest. But once I had them in both of my arms, my sleeping babies, I knew that my life wasn't entirely mine anymore. It was jointed to them. They were a part of me, inside of me, and I made them a promise. They won't remember that promise, but I swore to both of them, that momma would never let anything hurt them."

"Diana, you didn't—"

"Back then I could protect them," continued Diana. "Back when I was at the peak of my abilities. But I let the lull of peace dull my senses. I let myself believe that the world was alright. That we had made it safe. I was a fool."

Steve's face was pale and pleading. "Baby, it's not your fault."

"I was so stupid,"—she rocked little David in her arms: defenseless little baby; trusting and innocent. "And that stupidity cost my children. But no more, Steve. Their mother is no longer stupid. I'm going to do what I should have done at the beginning."

She spoke softly with David still in her arms—she didn't want to wake. But an undertow of anger swam in the cooing tone that made the men shift uncomfortably, as if the room was suddenly heated like a sauna.

Diana kissed her little baby on the forehead. She gently handed him back to Steve.

"Di," Steve—defeated and lifeless—accepted David into his arms. "Please."

Diana then kissed Steve on the mouth. It was a long, hard kiss. She tasted the salt from his tears, could smell the sweat of his distress. She was gasping air when she broke the kiss.

"What am I supposed to tell the kids?" asked Steve. His eyes were red and afraid.

"Tell them I'm going to work—and that I'll be late."

Then she stepped out the front door. Clark followed closely behind her. The dusk was upon them, and the air was cooling in the dying sun. But it was still Summer.

"We don't kill people, Diana," said Clark suddenly, uncertainly.

Diana let out a mirthful, bitter laugh. "How long have you been waiting to say that, Kal-el?"

"I'm not accusing you, Di. I just want to make sure we understand each other. If Roland attacks you, and you defend yourself, that's one thing. But if Roland surrenders, then we have to bring him in the old way. He has to face justice."

"Justice," she repeated scornfully. "Of course. You don't have to worry about me, Clark."

Clark did not look convinced: he side-eyed her with frequent, uneasy suspicion. Justice was about balance; righting wrongs, crime and punishment. A delicate dance of measurement and finesse. But the woman who stood before Clark now: overbearing and vengeful—a raging bull, was certainly incapable of subtlety and nuance. Could she be objective? Could she be patient and understanding? It was like asking a bull to be a swan; water to be cement.

"Are you sure about this, Di?"

Instead of answering him, she took off into the night—because Diana herself didn't know the truth. For now, she was holding it together—but she was an element, a storm on the sea, a force from nature. Add in the right stimulus, the right compound, and she would react; no thinking about it, no hesitation, no consideration—just action and reaction. Like oxygen to a fire, baking soda to vinegar. A mother bear; a lioness. Once she locked eyes onto Roland—the man who tried to kill her son—god only knows what she would be forced to do.


	19. Chapter 18 - The Attack Begins

Chapter 18

_Beep. Beep. Beep_

The hearbeat monitor was steady. William Trevor's chest rose and fell steadily.

But Emma Trevor was not steady—there were no words to describe the empty, hollow swooshing going on about her. It was like the positive electricity in her body had been sucked away and replaced with a negative charge—an anti-energy. She was aware of her existence, the healthy beat of her heart and the harmony of all her bodily systems—limbic, circulatory, endocrine, muscular—working together. But her brother's dying state made her sick of it; rotten and spoiled. It should be _her _on the table; she was strong, she was alien strong. But Will? He was already sickly and thin to begin with. It was like a cancer patient suddenly developing Alzheimer's—how was that fair?

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

Emma dipped a washcloth into a bucket of warm water at her feet. She wiped her brother's sweaty forehead. His entire body was clammy. She had been given the least important job; and she was miserable that she couldn't do more.

Alfred looked at the machines surrounding her brother. He was writing down on a clipboard. "Fever 102 degrees. Blood pressure 130 over 80."

Emma dunked the cloth into the bucket. She brought it back up and wrung it. The water rippled endlessly. "And what does that mean, Alfred?"

Alfred continued to write on a clipboard. "He was 104 when he arrived, and his systolic was over 140. He's leveling off—slowly."

"He's getting better?"

Alfred noticed the hope in her voice. He looked at her over the edge of his half-moon reading glasses. "It's important that we manage our expectations, Emma."

"What the hell does that mean?"

Alfred didn't answer her.

Emma furiously set aside the washcloth and bucket.

"So?"

Alfred continued to write on the clipboard. "So what now?"

"We wait."

"Wait for what?"

"For his condition to improve."

Emma suddenly grabbed a tray of medication sitting uselessly beside William's bed. "Don't you think we should give him any of this stuff?"

"Put that down, Emma. I just finished organizing that."

Emma wanted to hurl the tray at Alfred's apathetic, patient face.

"My little brother is nearly dead and you're just sitting there on a stool, Alfred—do something!"

Alfred looked at her tiredly but understandingly. She hated his sympathetic smile.

"Emma, believe me when I say we're doing the best we can."

"How is that possible? Shouldn't we give him medication? Maybe perform some kind of surgery? I don't know—"

Alfred put the clipboard down. He looked incredibly guilty. "Emma, my love. He's not going to die. I swear to you."

"But _how _do you know that—?"

"Because Ra's Al Ghul gave me his word."

"And you _trust _Ra's Al Ghul, Alfred? Didn't he once try and burn this city?"

"No, I don't trust him, Emma. What I meant was, well, look—"

Alfred sighed. He put the clipboard down.

"Ra's is a snake: you could spend a lifetime developing a relationship with the man, and he'd kill you just as easily if your death could net him some kind of profit. But when Ra's Al Ghul says something, he follows through on it. He's not a liar."

"How do you know so much about this man?" said Emma carefully. "Mom didn't know him either."

A look of panic came over Alfred's eyes—but quickly, almost with a disturbing grace, Alfred regained his composure. He looked grandfatherly again: wrinkly, wry smile; pasty-white, harmless fragility.

"I served in the Royal Airforce for many years, you know. Made some interesting contacts. And the GCPD keeps me informed—_kept _me informed, I should say."

"Why? Why did they keep _you_ informed?"

"And what is that supposed to mean, Emma?" said Alfred playfully, but with a hint of irritation in his voice. "Am I not that important?"

Emma did not take the bait to be playful. She glowered at Alfred. "You know something, I know it. And I don't appreciate you keeping me in the dark, Alfred."

"When have I ever kept you in the dark, Emma?"

Which was a perfectly reasonable counter-argument: Alfred was her confidant, her backchannel source. He had given her the books; he had given her the magazine article. It was Alfred who always pushed her toward the clandestine.

Emma leaned forward and rubbed her face in her hands. "I'm sorry, Alfred. I'm just sick of all this."

Alfred looked at her most sympathetically. "This business isn't all what it is talked up to be, right?"

"What business is that?"

"Your mother's business."

"No, it isn't."

Alfred came beside her and put an arm around her shoulder. He smelled like chamomile lotion and soap. It was oddly reassuring.

"How did you like the book I sent you?"

"The revolutionaries in Latin America?"

"Yes, I thought it would appeal to that famously stubborn quality of yours."

"I haven't read too much into it. Some idiot on the train wouldn't let me read, and then with all that's happened . . . I'm sorry about that, Alfred—"

Alfred chuckled. "This isn't a book report, Emma. Read it at your leisure."

"'Leisure,'" she repeated, as if it was some foreign, odd-sounding concept. "I'm sure the women in that book didn't have time for leisure."

"No," admitted Alfred. "They were preoccupied with greater concerns—like freeing their home-countries from tyranny."

"U.S. tyranny," said Emma matter-of-factly. "Did you know that, Alfred? They were fighting against _us._"

"I taketh offense to that," said Alfred in his poshest accent. "I'm a subject of the Sceptered Isle—God save the King!"

Alfred boomed with laughter, but it died away once he realized Emma was not joining it; like a flame suffocated underneath a belljar.

"I was looking at old financial reports," said Emma in a glum tone. "Wayne Enterprises had some business dealings down there, you know. Oil refineries. Copper mines. Crops.—this bunker, everything keeping my brother alive, the money that paid for my schooling, my clothes, all of it was paid for by resources stolen from another land."

"Your grandfather put a stop—excuse me, Thomas Wayne," he corrected at the annoyed look Emma gave him—"put an end to those dealings in the seventies, my dear. He knew it was wrong. He and I went down to Guatemala personally."

"It doesn't matter," said Emma. She leaned away from Alfred, rubbing her hands together; she was staring off into the bunker. "I can't be like those revolutionary women in the book, Alfred. They would have been fighting _me. _I'm their enemy, not their ally. It's like here in Gotham City—my brother is a police officer, and I love him, and I'd die for him; but pretty soon he and the rest of the police force are going to kick out everyone in Canary Square onto the otherside of the city. And I have a friend who lives there, on the street—but is he really my friend? How can I be a friend if I'm hurting him?"

"And then look at me—I'm trying to help, but I seemed to be hurting more than helping. I saw him, Alfred, I saw Will when they took him. I was going to go down there with him, into the sewers. But then Roland's men appeared. If I had been faster, if I had recognized what was going on, then . . ."

She hung her head; a gesture of defeat and deflation. The slate of the bunker was smooth, and it caught the reflection of the bunker overhead lights brilliantly. It was hard to keep her eyes open.

"I don't know what I'm doing, Alfred. I don't know who to help. I don't know who the good guys are anymore. I don't know who _I _am anymore."

To her surprise, Alfred was smiling at her. A fond, whimsical look on his aging face.

"I'm not laughing at you," he said quietly, reading her indignation. "I'm just . . . I think you're going to be okay, Emma."

"Alfred, please, enough of these vague, coded messages. I get them enough from Lucius."

As if on cue, Lucius emerged from the elevator. He was rushing over with his briefcase in one hand, and a bundle of paperwork in the other.

"How are things?" asked Alfred cheerfully.

"Where's Dad and David?" said Emma.

"They're both fine—at your home," explained Lucius. He walked around to a nearby table and started organizing vials and the medical instruments. "Your mother almost tore all of our heads off."

"Master Trevor convinced her to let him stay at home?"

"He didn't," said Lucius gravely. "But I called Ra's, and he sent some people to guard the home."

"Where is my mother?" said Emma.

Lucius gave her a look: _where do you think?_

Alfred got up and went to the table. "Master William's bloodwork should be completed. Of course, I can't make sense of these papers, Lucius."

"The computer sent me the results on my wireless." said Lucius. He was looking at the screen of his laptop "Roland's serum is unlike any property I have ever seen. From what I understand, it attacks the central nervous system like a Rhabdoviridae virus, but instead of replicating itself—"

"Excuse me," said Emma. "Like a Rhabi what?"

"Rabies," said Lucius. "Normally it immediately attacks the brain, but Roland's variety instead lays dormant in the spinal column, during that time it has direct contact with the neuromuscular system of the body. This explains the increased durability and physical strength in its hosts. But during this dormancy, the serum's half-life diminishes—it becomes unstable. Once it reaches a critical instability, the virus shoots up to the brain and wreaks havoc. That's what causes the aggression, hallucinations, and disorientation. It rewrites the healthy nerve cells of the brain."

A horrifying nervousness had seized Emma. "And is that what's happening to Will?"

"No, William was only recently exposed. The serum has barely entered his central nervous system. He will, however, need to keep taking regular injections of the serum to keep it dormant. That's the only thing that prevents the half-life from diminishing."

She looked at her brother's sleeping form. He had to take that black liquid to keep from going insane.

"It's not ideal," said Alfred delicately. "But it's better than death."

Emma ignored Alfred. "So what were you doing in there with all those fancy tubes?"

"This is a spectrometer," said Lucius, taking hold of a large, oven-sized medical appliance. "It'll separate the compound from your brother's bloodwork. I'm trying to make a cure."

"'Trying to,'" said Emma lowly.

Lucius's face became pale and grey. He could not meet her eyes.

"Okay, so when do we give him his first injection?" asked Emma.

"When he wakes up," said Alfred. "I've been in contact with Ra's. Roland takes a weekly dose of 25mm. That should be enough for William."

"Enough? Don't you think we should make sure he gets enough—?"

"We'll adjust as accordingly, Emma," said Alfred gently but firmly. "This is a first time for all of us, too."

The anger and dejection was apparent on Emma's face. Alfred took her to the side.

"Why don't you go for a walk, Emma? There's not much any of us can do for young William while he's like this."

Emma shook her head. "I'm not going to leave him."

"I know what you're thinking Emma. You think that if you leave here, you'll be abandoning your duties as a sister. Or perhaps you measure your love for you brother by the amount of uncomfortable hours you spend at his side—neither of those things are true. When he wakes up, he'll need you at your best. Go. Take a walk. Clear your head. Your brother's going to need a sister who is well rested."

Emma was looking at William for a long time. His breathing was so shallow it could hardly be discernible. He was impossibly vulnerable. She didn't want to leave him. But Alfred was convinced, and behind the work desk, Lucius was nodding his head, egging her on.

"Alright," she said. She looked back at the hidden elevator. "How do I get to the lobby with that thing? Better yet, how do I come back down? I don't imagine there's a button that says 'bunker' on the elevator."

Alfred's face was sallow but he smiled anyway. "Press 1-9-3-9. That'll bring you back."

She took the elevator upstairs to the lobby. It was nice to be alone, but that also made her feel guilty. Why did everything she do suck? She couldn't protect her family, she couldn't protect her brother—she couldn't even protect herself.

As a hero, she failed miserably. As a businesswoman, she also failed miserably.

She was useless. And she had made a promise.

When Emma was born—entering the world a whole twenty minutes before her twin brother did—the doctors declared her a perfectly healthy baby. Almost immediately, Emma cried her first breaths of air, and happily took to napping in the hospital crib within minutes. But William, like in all things, was his sister's complete opposite. He was in breech and short on his oxygen supply. The doctors applied pressure to Diana's stomach and William emerged twenty minutes later after a tug-of-war between the doctors and Diana's uterus. The doctors slapped him hard because he stubbornly refused to breathe, and somewhere in this anxiety, William's skin had turned blue. For three days, the doctors monitored William's status in a separate ward; they feared he had some sort of heart defect, but on the third day, his skin miraculously cleared up, and his breathing relaxed. Finding nothing wrong with little William, the doctors also declared William a happy baby, albeit a fragile boy with a slight penchant for bouts of illness. In this way, the birth of the twins was a prognostication of the years to come: Emma would grow into an impressive and immensely strong woman, whereas William was sometimes thin and sickly, always complaining of headaches. He was a little more fragile than he liked to admit.

And because of that, Emma decided when she was very young that it was her job to take care of him. She was his older sister, after all, and that's what big sisters did. They took care of their little brothers.

She had not lived up to this promise. There was no way of sugarcoating it. Her brother William lay unconscious on a white medical table. He wore the deathmask of himself. Black gunk dribbled out of his nose. The elevator door opened. Emma stepped out into the lobby. Would William ever forgive her—?

"Hey, I'm talking to you!"

It was Kevin the security guard. He was standing behind the reception area of the lobby; his arms crossed, surly and angry, billyclub hanging off his belt. He was glaring at Emma.

"Kevin," said Emma, blinking. She had been ripped so suddenly out of her thoughts she felt disoriented. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"Typical," muttered Kevin. He drummed his fingers on his bicep. "But that's women for you—I said would you like someone to accompany you?'"

"Accompany me?" repeated Emma. She was still so disoriented his misogyny hadn't yet registered with her brain. "What are you talking about?"

Kevin came around the reception area; he had that swing in his gait again. A lurching, swarthy, totally unattractive gesture.

"It isn't all that safe to be alone in an office building by yourself—especially a woman as beautiful as yourself," he added with a wry smile.

"Thank you, Kevin," said Emma politely. She walked to the lobby exit. "But I'm going to take a walk."

But Kevin kept abreast of her, doggedly determined to win her affection.

"I'm the shift manager after business hours, Emma. I could call myself a break, protect you on your walk?

"And what—abandon your security post?" said Emma, pushing open the lobby door. "You're a vital piece of our company's security. What would Wayne Enterprises do without you, Kevin?"

Kevin stopped at the threshold; his eyes worked with confusion. "Wait, are you being sarcastic?"

"Typical," sighed Emma. She fixed the loose security badge on Kevin's chest. "But that's men for you—slow on the uptake. See you around, Kevin."

And as the lobby door closed behind her, Kevin muttered something that sounded suspiciously like '_ungrateful bitch_.' Emma almost laughed: What was it about men? They did a favor for you, and suddenly they expected you to open your legs for them. What fragile egos.

Emma walked along the avenue for a long time. There was a humid suddenness about the city—thick canvasses of rainclouds blotting out the stars; the night suffused with warmth and moisture. Everything seemed to suggest a rainforest or jungle. The clothes stuck to Emma's skin as she walked down the avenue. Her footsteps struck the sidewalk cleanly and soundly. The only other noise came from the honk and horning of distant cars, like some distant cry-and-call mating ritual. The peaceful stillness surprised her; no delirious nightclub music, no police caterwauling. Maybe it was the contrast from the police chase of the day before—the loud magenta of the police sirens, the slatted beat of the helicopters, the graceful fury of the motorbike. The city was empty—emptier than the hollowness she carried inside her stomach. Something was wrong, missing; but she couldn't explain it. Like a missing detail in a familiar, famous painting.

A homeless man came walking down the street toward her. He was wandering aimlessly. Suddenly, Emma caught the missing detail: he was the only homeless person on the street.

She walked hurriedly over to Canary Square—her heart sank: the rows of tents were all gone. Vanished and relocated, what remained were the square tent outlines of filth and litter on the sidewalk. Had the city finally done it? Had the police arrived in big vans and carried them all off to New Gotham like William said they would? She would have to ask William when she got back—then she remembered her brother's condition, and it made her feel rotten that she had forgotten.

Emma made a large circle around the block and came back the other side of the Wayne Enterprise lobby entrance. She prepared herself for Kevin's misogyny, but the lobby door was slightly ajar. A body lay across it. A familiar, pudgy shape.

"Kevin! Kevin, are you okay!?"

Kevin was unresponsive – lying on his back, hairy belly facing toward the sky. She checked for a pulse—small and steady like a morse-code. She turned him gently: left temple was swollen and slightly bleeding. Something had hit him so hard it had knocked him out. Emma looked around the lobby. Nobody there. But there was a camera stationed above the elevators.

"Hold on, Kevin," she said in a loud, clear voice. "I'm calling you an ambulance. I'll be right back."

Kevin made a low, chesty sound—like a man recovering from one-too-many drinks. He was going to be okay. Emma took the ring of keys off his belt and went over to the security room. She was several seconds trying all of the keys when, letting out a gruff exhale of breath, she kicked the door inwards. The door blew off its hinges and landed on the other side of the room, caved in.

Emma found the security controls at a computer/keyboard workstation. The spacebar was pause/go, and the arrows were reverse/forward. She wound the footage and saw herself walking in reverse from the security room and discovering Kevin's body. She kept winding the footage until she found the scuffle—a seemingly random man wandered in from the street. Kevin confronted him, reaching for his billy club, but the man had overpowered him.

Emma frowned. There was something familiar about the attacker—again, she had that sensation of a famous painting and a missing detail. She slowed the footage and enlarged the picture. It was a bit blurry, and she had to lean forward. Something familiar about the man's face—

"Nineb!?" she exclaimed in disbelief. It _was _him—same gaunt, bald face, same nervous walk. But he looked different. He was no longer his smiling, slightly naïve self; he was wearing a solemn expression. And his Gotham Rogues t-shirt was gone. He was now dressed in grey rags, looking like a threadbare monk.

She sped the footage along. After knocking Kevin off his feet, Nineb carried a very big bag into an elevator and pressed the basement level. Then the camera lost him. Emma switched furiously between feeds, finally finding the dim, grainy basement footage of Nineb planting something on the walls of the basement: square units, looking like tiny little coffee bags. An ugly sensation suddenly buzzed behind her eyeballs, pounded her forehead.

_Oh god, oh god, no._

The color palette of the security footage was black and white—mushy, pixelated blackness against the contrast of bright, bleary whiteness; an impossibility to separate reds from purples; blues from green. But the color of Nineb's rags were uniform and clean—a quality that hovered nicely between the monochrome spectrum. Emma backed away from the keyboard; a coldness in her belly, like an iceberg. She knew what Nineb was doing with those little square packages; she knew why his rags looked so agreeable in the black and white. He was arming explosives. He was wearing grey robes.


	20. Chapter 19 - The Hunchback of Gotham

Chapter 19

Clark and Diana marched through the sewers with Diana's data-pad before them. A cold dampness clinging to the air—not particularly foul smelling, but neither of the pair were willing to breathe their noses for very long. Sharp mineral deposits prickled the surface of the tunnels, and always a small rivulet of water ran underneath their feet—Clark folded up the hem of his cape after it kept catching behind him. Their footsteps were loud and lonely in the water; like they were explorers crawling through an abandoned city. This stillness, this isolation and abandonment, saturated the two of them with trepidation—they walked nervously, expecting the waters to suddenly ripple with incoming movement; the dead of the abandoned city resurrected, trampling up to greet these trespassers. Something big lurked ahead.

As they walked, Clark's face was split with amazement and amusement, as if he were remembering some secret joke. He kept looking down at the water, shaking his head, a faint smile on his lips.

"What?" she finally asked, growing impatient with his smile.

Clark looked up quizzically. He said nothing.

"Don't give me that, Kal-el. You have that face again."

"It's nothing, Di. I was just thinking."

"Thinking about what?"

Clark sighed; he seemed reluctant to have to say it. "I was just thinking about your son Will—how did he find his way around here? And we have a map."

Diana remained silent. Was it pride she felt? Anger? Her son was certainly resourceful.

They came to a grated junction of pipelines. Three of them extended left, right, and ahead. The one they just exited was behind them, making four.

"We're directly above the cistern." Diana held her datapad before her. "There should be a stairwell."

"All three of these tunnels feed out in separate directions. None of them goes _downward_."

"Let's keep moving."

They walked ahead for several minutes. It was more of the same: dark, damp sewer that stretched on endlessly; silence and anxiety accompanying their footsteps; the patient, maddening trickle of water following them.

Clark's head suddenly jerked sideways – like a dog hearing a faraway noise.

Diana listened for several beats. She heard nothing.

"What is it, Kal-el—?"

Clark shushed her. He put his head against the sewer.

"Vibrations. I can hear them through the pipes."

Diana held up the datapad, she looked back at Clark, expectedly. A gesture that said: _Where are they coming from?_

"I have no idea." He removed his head and kept walking. "We must be getting closer though."

But after a few minutes she heard the vibrations, too. There was still no light source, and the pipes still were not descending downwards. But the water underneath them was rippling.

"And you still can't see through the pipes?"

Clark shook his head. "Too much lead."

The vibrations suddenly coalesced into an audible rhythm. A steady, continuous beat. Hard hitting chest thumps that she felt in her diaphragm.

Clark was moving ahead earnestly—his attention had been stolen, like a search dog suddenly upon a new scent. Clark raised his knuckle and tapped on a section of tunnel. _Dud-duh. Dud-duh. Dud-duh._

Clark shifted over, and knocked again. _Tah-tuh._

"Hollow," said Diana.

Clark stepped away. His eyes flared a violent red. "Yep."

Intense beams of energy burst from his eyes—he was cutting through the pipewall like a welder a workbench. The sewer howled with resistance: bits of lead and concrete blowing out the sides, the rivulet of water underneath glowering red with the beam's reflection. Dust swirled in the tight enclosed air of the tunnel. Diana shut her eyes and held her hand over her mouth. The noise was horrendous.

The red beams slowly died out, and the sewer returned to its stillness; but now dust hung suspended in the air. Pieces of lead and concrete tumbled down the tunnel, into the water. The tunnel sizzled and vibrated in the aftermath of the cauterization – like a rocket engine cooling after liftoff. There was large sized gap in the wall. On the other side, through the plume of smoke, was the unmistakable sight of a spiral stairwell.

"After you," said Clark, but Diana had already stepped through the hole.

An archway waited at the bottom of the stairwell, as did a sharp cut of light coming from the archway. The drumming was in their chest cavities now: a baritone and bravado heaviness, beckoning them across the archway, a yearning moment like curtains opening on a play. Clark and Diana went down the stairwell, descending into the underbelly of the cavernous and the abandoned. All sorts of images ran through the imaginations of what lay ahead: an underworld court of jesters and kings, an undead army of the ruined and vagrant, a drumming like no other, silly and melodramatic and deliriously apropos to the incoming event.

Like gladiators the two of them passed underneath the archway. The great cistern stood before them: octagonal in shape, a ceiling seemingly stretching up to infinity. A waterfall of sewer runoff crashed down and collected in a large moat around the central land of the cistern. There were bridges leading across. And Roland's army, fully at attention, fully draped in grey, waited on the other side. The drumming was coming from behind the front lines, from some centerfield of the area.

Clark watched cistern; there was so much to take in. All along the octagonal walls were sewer mouths lined in trypophobic fashion, and there were men stationed in these mouths with rifles in their arms. "Look, Di."

A hunchbacked, squalid figure in a grey cloak was waiting at the mouth of the bridge. He leaned heavily on a wooden staff; a gesture of harmlessness, of dependence. He looked like some mad professor's laboratory assistant, or an aging, Alzheimered Grim Reaper.

"I think he's waiting for us," said Clark.

"Good." Diana made for a bridge.

The hunchback nodded politely as she neared. And the voice that came out of the hood was like a dying animal. "Roland . . . is . . . expecting . . ."

The energy to speak clearly cost the hunchback dearly. Instead, the hunchback motioned with a gloved, trembling hand: _follow me. _And with the assistance of the wooden staff, lead the way across the bridge. Their path bisected the camp the whole way, which gave Diana and Clark an intimate look at the heart of the camp's operations: not very glamorous, but well-equipped and provisioned. Improvised hammocks swung freely, the material torn but patched up with wayward cloth. Rifles and swords. Empty crates stacked to make dining tables. Men wore frayed boots that did not match their uniform. Nothing matched anything. But there was always grey. Grey cotton jackets and gray bulletproof vests and grey military carbines.

The pace of the hunchback was clubfooted and ponderous. Diana and Clark ambled very slowly behind, and this way, they saw the many faces of the army with portrait-intimate detail: shriveled hands, gigantic torsos, misaligned shoulders and misshapen faces. The army was a motley of the lame, the blind, and the mean-faced. Plenty of dead-faced paramilitary soldiers: these were the big, menacing, scarred troops. But just as many who clumsily held a weapon, and their youthful, unscarred faces betraying their inexperience with war. The age of the army varied: a bearded man slightly past middle age standing shoulders next to an adolescent child. Women, too, stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the men: longhaired and long-limbed women; buzz-shaven, large-eyed women; bony, bird-faced women; large, thick-necked women.

There was so much variance, so much _difference. _But the one quality making giving unity to the group, the rope corralling all of these wayward sheep together, was the _grey_ness of their demeanor. It went beyond the color of their uniform; it was in their faces: a quiet, disciplined, and neutral intensity.

The hunchback finally took them to the center of the camp: here the drumming intensified, and before them was a raised platform cut by roughly hewn stairs. At the top of the platform: a throne, and a familiar grey figure sitting on it with their head in hands. Shrouded in shadow; a sword between their legs, a grey cloak over their face. The grey figure played with the grey sash hanging by their waist.

Slowly, Diana and Clark came before the steps. A dozen drummers sat at the bottom of the steps: identical grey-clad figures, masks and cloaks, drumming with heavy-handed, slightly off-beat intensity.

The drumming suddenly stopped; silence reigned over the cistern. Nothing but the crashing of the waterfall. Behind Diana and Clark, the army stood still and readied. A calm-faced, dead-eyed hunger. Like being watched by civilized wolves.

"R—Roland, the Grey Paladin . . ." croaked the hunchback, making a bow that severely accented their misaligned shoulders. "Here are your guests."

The hunchback lurched away to the recesses of the raised platform. Now there was only Clark and Diana standing there. The grey figure on the throne let the grey sash slip through their fingers; it swung loosely for a moment, like a freefall pendulum, before hanging still. This action seemed to announce the end of the grey figure's meditations—they rubbed their hands together, finally speaking.

"And what have you two come to do?"

It was Roland's voice: that soft, purring, playful accent. But this time, serious and quiet, his voice gained a new dimension: a threatening tranquility. Like a dictator who whispered into the ears of his generals: _kill them all. _

Diana put a hand to her sheathed sword. A gesture to answer his question. And then the death-glare; she poured every emotion—the fury, the indignation, the sorrow, the helplessness—into her face. A look of boiling coldness, an inflamed composure. Behind them, the waterfall suddenly crashed with an upswell of water; a ripping, challenging roar. Water droplets scattered on the ground. Everyone watched, expectantly.

"Of course," said Roland. He sat up in his throne, his voice a little hoarse. "Fair enough."

Clark stepped forward steadily, coming between Diana and Roland. "_We_ are here to put an end to you, Roland. We'll give you a chance to come quietly. Nobody else needs to get hurt."

"Oh, but that's where you're wrong, Kal-El. People _need _toget hurt." Roland stood up from the throne, walking down the steps. "How else do you enact change? You, too, are protectors of this world, no? And what do you do? You fight. You cause pain. You hurt the people who would like to hurt you, no?"

"_We _are not murderers," said Diana coldly. "_We_ don't poison people."

Roland stood still at the bottom of the steps. "What happened to your son was . . . it was not what I had intended. I swore that I would not hurt your family—and while I did not explicitly break that oath, I violated the spirit of it. That is not who I am. For that, you have my apolog—"

"No," said Diana suddenly. She unsheathed her sword. "I don't want to hear it."

No combination of words, no formulation of scenarios, could deter the surging indignation in her throat; the violent, vengefulness in her body. More than impulse, deeper than desire, it was a biological necessity; a firing neuron; an absolutism; a binary. Nothing could be simpler.

Roland remained still and statuesque. Although his eyes were still masked, he seemed to be eying the blade in her hand carefully. "Straight to business, I see."

"Di," said Clark curtly. He was looking at her side-eyed: _we talked about this._

"There will be no compromise, no middle-ground—no _grey area,_" she spat this latter point to Roland. "You hurt my family, Roland. You've threatened my city. Surrender or death. That is the best deal you are going to get."

"Di," repeated Clark, unable to mask the worry in his voice. "Maybe we should take it slow—"

"No, she is right," said Roland fairly. He sounded like a judge in a courtroom. "Actions have consequences. One person acts, and there is a _re_-action. It is the way of the world."

Slowly, he walked laterally. His bootsteps muted on the floor; his cloak dragging on the floor. Diana followed his movement like her head was on a swivel: focused, tiger-eyed. Clark, meanwhile, looked increasingly uneasy, glancing quickly between Diana and Roland.

"It is like the old cliché about a stone and a pond," said Roland, gliding on his feet. "The pond surface is smooth, but drop one stone into it, no matter how subtle, and there you are: re-action."—Roland's fingers fluttered, a pantomime of ripples in the water—"But what they don't tell you, is that the pond's smooth surface is a lie. A trick. Underneath the surface, there is all sorts of chaos. Big fish eating little fish. Bottomfeeders eating dead fish. Blood in the water. Death."

Roland looked up at waterfall, his gaze going beyond it to the city from which it came. "And Gotham City is the pond—a beautiful city, on the surface. Tall buildings. Architecture. Parks. Mom-and-Dad picnics, Trust funds. Theatres and movies. Peaceful."

"Let me guess," said Diana scornfully, hatefully. "And your army is the stone."

Roland stopped and addressed the faces of the army: grotesques and misfits, missing teeth, warped skulls, tattered clothing, rank-smelling breath. He looked on them proudly.

"No, these are the bottom feeders—now _this_ is the stone."

Roland produced a bottle of the serum in hand. He held it in the palm of his hand like a pill. "An unassuming, unpolished stone. Not special in size or strength. But the ripples it can produce . . ."

Roland glided back to the steps. Holding out his hand with the bottle in his palm; some strange, giddy step in his gait. "With this, the poor and the powerless—the bottomfeeders, hidden underneath the smooth surface of the pool—will be seen. They will liberated."

This time Diana let out a laugh – a gleeful, mirthful reaction that sounded like a witch's cackle in the empty space of the cistern. "Is that what you think you are? A liberator who sits upon a throne?"

"Oh, I am not a liberator, Princess. Liberators do not exist. The people liberate themselves, _if_ they have the courage and the means to incite revolution."

He held the bottle in his hand a little more emphatically: _here are the means. _

Roland suddenly addressed one of the drummers at the base of the steps. "Brother Isaac, who is allowed to sit upon that throne?"

The drummer—a smudgy, bony, wild-haired youth— answered, "Anyone, Brother Roland."

"Anyone," repeated Roland, his voice a low whisper, ecstatic. "And why am _I _sitting up it?"

"Because we elected you. You are our voice."

"And where does my strength lie?"

The drummer's face flashed with pride and determination. "The people. You are the people and the people are you. You are at their mercy."

Roland put a hand on his shoulder. "I am indeed, my brother. So—" Roland returned his attention to Diana and Clark. "You see, my friends. If you've come here to kill a tyrant or a despot, I'm afraid you'll find none here."

Diana twitched at Roland addressing them as 'friends,' and Clark, seeing this, quickly intervened, asking the first question that came to mind. "Why are you here? Why did you come to this city?

Roland's face seemed delighted by the question. "_We_ are here to correct a long-existent flaw upon the world. Like you, we want justice. We want prosperity. We are here to defeat the enemy. His name is greed. Greed is the false idol that was promised, and we shall knock down the pillars erected in his name. And all those who worship him shall be given a choice: renounce their possessions, or face justice."

"Justice," said Clark. "You mean execution."

Roland shrugged. "We are not pillagers. We don't want your wealth. All we want are the rights and the privileges promised to all men. If they are not given, what other choice do we have but to take them ourselves? It is not our fault if our enemies are willing to kill to keep his riches."

"Your enemies are innocent people who have committed no crimes," said Clark. "They may be greedy, but greed is not a crime."

A jolt of indignation struck Roland; his loose and swinging gait stiffened. He was trembling, and when he spoke, the voice that came out from the grey hood was a whispery snarl.

"'_No crimes?_ Ten years ago, a handful of economist bankers nearly drove this country into the ground. And for what—to buy more fancy cars; more expensive suits? Poverty. Murder. Suicide. Millions of people lost their livelihoods, their homes—their families destroyed. But no banker or broker ever saw a prison cell. No one answered for their crimes. It is you people, you CEOs and you stockbrockers, you corporations—you are the modern day Caesars and Caligulas. Gotham City is simply another Versailles. You play an elaborate game with ourlives and our bodies and call it 'democracy_.' _Tell me, what democracy condones the imprisonment of its citizens who resort to thievery to survive? What is _democratic _about a nation that neglects the poor and calls it 'competition'? That is the silent strangulation in which we, at the bottom, exist. That is the real crime for which this city's wealthy will be tried—and we _will _seek out this justice."

A low thrumming hum slowly seized the cistern – but it was not the drummers. The entire army, standing behind Roland, chanted and cheered. Belief was spreading like a gas in the cistern—something invisible like air, but just as real and visceral: a fact felt in the heart and soul.

"This is the blood of our covenant." Roland held the vial of his Lazarus up high in his hand, like a priest upon an altar. "It has transformed a miserable lot into the most dangerous army in the world. With this, the blind can see, and the lame can fly. Where there was weakness, there is strength. And we will fall upon this temple and cleanse it: uproot the thieves, the pilferers and moneylenders who style themselves as 'respectable' and 'decent.'"

Roland's words were like a necromancer's spell—he reanimated the broken, vagrant bodies of his army, giving them life and purpose. And their faces—normally stony and dead-eyed, now flourished with emotion: exhilaration, anger, determination, and hope. The army uplifted him, elevating his words and his message higher and higher atop a wave of belief, a geyser of conviction.

"This serum will be the new currency – those who follow our codes of compassion will receive their fair portion of the serum. But those who resist the new rules, those who believe themselves above compassion, who believe that the rules do _not _apply to them. . . they will not receive their fair portion. And then we will see what happens to a sheep exiled from the pack."

Roland's shut his hand, tucking the serum away, making it clear what would happen to the people who did not follow in line. And behind Roland, the army was fully animated: a force of nature, like a hurricane or storm. Outliers. Pariahs. Ostracized. A feverish greysurf teeming with refuse and flotsam. Totally united behind this singular vision, this singular man.

"Now," drawled Roland. He had regained his composure, and as he lowered his voice, the raucous army slowly died down. "You two style yourselves as heroes. Saviors. Champions of the people, no? Then I offer you an allegiance, Princess Diana and Kal-el of Krypton. Help us defeat our real enemy. Help serve the defenseless, and the weak. Join us, and you will serve the greatest good there is."

Like a director of a stage play, Roland controlled the spotlight—now he thrust it onto Diana and Clark, and the attention of the army shifted onto them. Diana and Clark stood there, stunned and spotlighted. Of all the ways they envisioned the night going, this was definitely not it. Roland's words rattled in their heads; like a ball in a tin can. He was clearly educated, clearly brilliant, and totally unlike the villainous types they had previously encountered. Most of them wanted wealth, wanted power, wanted revenge. But this man before her sat on a throne made of sewage and discard. And his army, comprised of the dirty and the broken, _believed _in him.

To her surprise, Diana found herself swept up in the wild current of the grey army. It had been a long time since she stood in the wake of true conviction—a sense of isolation and brotherhood in the face of a force so totally overwhelming. Join or die, eat or be eaten. His army, composed of the hurt and the damned, had a beggar's sympathy – a fairness that she instinctually gave out. Could Roland be right? Was it fair that the world was so economically unbalanced? What right did _she _have to judge, considering she enjoyed so many of those riches? On the Amazon island, there was an old hierarchy cut in stone, but nobody was made to feel excluded or marginalized. Her mother, the Queen, would have never excused the levels of poverty that existed in Gotham City.

The homeless. The referendums. Twenty years of 'peace.' This entire time, Diana had enjoyed an idyllic, halcyon existence on her hill. But these people—the faces of Roland's army—told a different tale: misery, torture, hunger, and pain.

"I . . ." she felt like a swaying pendulum, this way and that way, teetering. "If you had come to us at the beginning . . . I understand the pain. I understand the anger. Maybe, just maybe . . . "

The pendulum swung back: images of her son, poisoned. And the man who did it stood before her.

"But you hurt my son," she whispered. The anger had returned, and it pushed out the conviction of Roland's rhetoric—not enough room in the cistern for two camps of emotion.

"You hurt my son," she said again louder and more focused. "And I will see justice done on that account."

She raised her shield, readied her sword. A clear provocation to fight. Clark took this as his cue as well: he rolled his shoulders, knitted his eyebrows, preparing himself for a fight.

Roland's stood silent for a moment. The hood masked his face, but his body-language, the disappointed quality it suddenly gained, expressed a solemn expression.

"A pity," he said quietly, finally. "We could have used you both."

Roland calmly picked up a small object from the side of the throne. It was the size of an apple, and looked to be made of wood. He pulled testily on the object and released a long band.

It was a slingshot; a children's toy.

"I picked this off the body of a boy in Guatemala. That is where I am from, you know," said Roland forlornly. "The boy's mother came to me and asked for my help. A local drug lord demanded this boy's allegiance, but the family refused. So the druglord set a tribute on his head. Every month, the family was required to pay the fee, if not, the boy would be seized and the family killed. I believe this is called racketeering?"

"Let me guess," said Diana. "You killed this drug lord? Is that how you justify your means?"

"I killed the family." Roland was still admiring the slingshot, speaking in a low conversational voice. "They had missed their payments, and I could not kill the entire cartel. A family cannot run forever. A small mercy. If the drug lord had gotten his hands on the family, the mother would have been used, the father tortured, and the son inducted into their ranks—where he would reproduce the same violent atrocities."

Roland loaded the slingshot with a ball from his belt. He pulled the band back, aiming testily.  
"This was the boy's favorite. I killed him last—to spare the father and mother, you see. It is not a good thing to see your children die. Every parent's nightmare, no? But—" Roland's voice suddenly swelled with laughter, a rich, heartfelt sound—"this was the one item the boy could not part with. They were hiding in a cave. On the run. Packages of food and clothing. This was all the boy had brought—no clothes, no pictures. Just a slingshot. I imagine, in some childlike logic, that he believed this would protect his family. Funny, the mind of a child. . ."

Roland swung the slingshot lazily onto Clark.

"History follows singular men, singular innovators, and the rest of the world goes along. Terrible men bring about terrible events. But they change the world. Why should I be criticized for taking my part in it?"

Roland released the band—the ball cut the air and whistled. A half-beat later, there was the thudding impact on the other side of the cistern – just about the time that Clark suddenly appeared at Roland's side.

"That's all very interesting, Mr. Roland. And I'm sure the police commissioner will find it just as fascinating."

Like a red blur, Clark seized Roland's wrist. The slingshot fell to the ground, and Roland let out a startled yelp. Clark pushed Roland against the throne; he had his arms locked behind him, his legs spread. Like a plush toy—no resistance, no difficulty: Roland, grey cloak whirling, unbalanced and disarmed; Clark, broad shouldered, in control. Synchronized movement - like the two had rehearsed this moment for a performance.

Diana swiftly turned on the spot. Any moment now panic would break out—raucous indignation, furious vengeance. Her sword hummed, her shield vibrated. Now she felt it again: the sharpness, the focus, the familiar adrenaline rush behind her eyes.

Things were falling back into place. It felt good, to operate again.

Behind her, Clark was saying: "If you surrender peacefully, we can avoid any further conflict. As for your army, we can get them treatment, and we can begin talking terms of surrender."

But before her, the grey army remained perfectly still. Their pale, stony faces untouched by the loud theatre before them. A cruel, callous bunch – did they feel _nothing _for their leader? Diana quickly glanced sideways, trying to catch the enormity of the army in her vision—emotionless and motionless bodies. Frozen, frigid discipline.

Something was wrong—her mind worked furiously, anxiously; the adrenaline behind her eyes dissolved into panic. Like an irritating itch in her ribs.

She had expected an avalanche, a storm. Howling winds of a blizzard. Surging, mammoth waves of grey. Instead, the grey army waited for their cue; a discipline reminding her of a fog curling over a cold lake. Slowly, a noose was tightening. Unseen, a trap falling into place.

Behind her, Roland's robes dragged on the ground; the scuffle of harsh, grappling movements. Knees bending, arms twisting, bodies jostling, and Clark shouting impatiently: "Tell your army to stand down. Tell them!"

Roland let out a chuckle. "_My_ army?"

Roland's chuckle—relaxed, full-chested, deep-breathed—seized Diana's attention like a chokehold. That was not the laugh of an unbalanced, jostled man.

Suddenly, the scuffle sounds behind her stopped. Clark had understood it, too.

"It's like I said," drawled Roland's lush, lax voice. "A_nyone _can sit upon this throne . . ."

Two things happened simultaneously; so sudden Diana could only whirl around and watch. Clark tore Roland's hood away, revealing the fanatical face of a bruised, bony girl—she had a radio receiver attached to her cheek. Meanwhile, the hunchback suddenly reappeared at the base of throne, and in a slew of cloaked movement, the hunchback, like some figure in a parable, suddenly stood up to full height with grace and strength. Their cloak, previously gangly and oversized on their shriveled form, stretched to a perfect fit. And their walking stick, Diana realized, was no longer a harmless aid for a geriatric—it was a spear.

"Kal-el! Behind you—!"

Too late. The hunchback had flung the spear like an expert lance – it stabbed Clark in the back, near his midsection, with a _crack! _

Clark's body stiffed, arched, like an electric jolt had struck him. His eyes, wide and confused, were on the bony girl; she watched him with delirious, maddened joy; a cult-like satisfied smirk on her lips: _we got you. _

Clark wobbled, his arms were out beside him, like he was losing his balance. The spear, stuck stubbornly in his back, wobbled as well.

The hunchback, now tall and handsomely erect, glided up the steps.

"Well done, Ese," whispered Roland's soft, throaty voice. "Tell me, do I really move my hands so much when I speak? Am I really so theatrical?"

The girl's face shone with pride: a peasant before a king, a mistress before a mogul. Roland petted her head affectionally.

Clark slowly fell to his knees; the spear stuck out diagonally from his back. He was gasping, his entire body convulsing, and the spear quivered.

"Yes, I imagine it is painful," said Roland, still petting the girl. "You have no idea how difficult it is to synthesize Kryptonite, and then keep it stable. At first I thought a conical bullet as a delivery system, but my scientists quickly turned me off that idea—the primer and gunpowder could set off such a radioactive substance. No, I needed a simpler solution. Fortunately, I remembered an unforgettable story my mother had read me as a child—"

Roland, turning away from the girl, suddenly seized the quivering spear—right there, a religious crusade sprang out from the gesture: Roland, drabbed in austere grey cloak, hand on the spear, standing over Clark's mighty, defeated form, looked like some Renaissance rendering of a mighty biblical victory. A warrior-priest on a mission to spread the word. A spear of God, wielded by an anonymous man, aimed against all ungodly enemies.

_Crack! _Roland broke the spear off in Clark's midsection—Clark convulsed again, a sound of agony traveling out of his throat that was guttural, belly-hot pain. Roland lifted one grey boot and, placing it on Clark's ribs—again a portrait of baroque triumph and grandeur—pushed the wounded Kryptonian down the flight of steps.

Clark rolled down the steps. His body trundled, a slow-motion embarrassment, stopping just beyond the foot of the stairs in a heap of dust and defeat. He was on his side, breathing heavily. Bloodied face, pale skin. Eyes drowsed with unconsciousness. His cape was enveloped around him like a military-honors funeral. The cistern waited silently.

"It seems like you have a choice," said Roland's voice. He stood at the top of the throne with the broken spear in hand—the spear now a scepter; a sovereign leader's instrument of power. "Your friend has a Kryptonite shard in his lower abdomen. I give him an hour to live, if you get him medical attention straight away. Or, you can stay and seek the justice you are so keen on exacting—either way, the clock is ticking."

But what did 'choice' mean? —options, opportunity, _free _will? The paralysis Diana felt was anything _but _free. Nothing free about a rational mind, nothing easy about an emotional heart. The 'correct' decision was to save her friend—hurting Roland would not cure William, it would not undo anything. But Diana wanted to drink down vengeance; let the sweet numb take hold of her moral compass. Give in, just once, into the desire of her being. Let her rage fall upon Roland's smugness, his superiority, his smooth-operating insufferableness. But revenge was a bitter, briny mezcal of logic and emotion—it stuck in her throat, reminding her that the love she felt for her son was also love she felt for her friend. She could not let Clark die, she could not abandon him when he needed her the most.

Clark moaned suddenly—seemingly reading her mind: _yes, Di, you cannot leave me here. What are you thinking? Help me, please._

And Roland, advocate for the other side, suddenly made a pantomime gesture of a watch on his wrist; he was tapping the imaginary watch, cocking his head – and through the masked veil, she was sure his arrogant smile was throwing it in her face: _who are you kidding? Of course you'd help your friends. You're predictable. Which is why you cannot beat me. _

With that, Diana finally came to her conclusion. It blazed on her face.

And Roland, reading her expression, slowly—carefully— lowered his hands: a gesture of complete, unmoored surprise.


	21. Chapter 20 - The Grey Paladin's Revolt

Chapter 20

Emma exited the security room. She was expecting to see Kevin back on his feet. Instead, half a dozen people waited in the lobby. Grey rags, all of them. A ragged, haggard bunch. Faces sunburnt and unwashed by hard-living and poor hygiene. Some were missing eyes, some had crooked, warped noses. About them hung the unmistakable electricity of conviction: an intense, cracking focus in their emotionless faces.

And they all had stuffed bags.

"Nineb said he heard of doings in the city," began Emma in a calm, in-control tone. "I had no idea he meant Roland."

The name _Roland _slapped the faces of the grey cloaks like a wet whip. They clearly had not been expecting that.

Now that she had their attention, Emma continued on, speaking earnestly, but without any quiver of doubt in her voice. "I know what you're here to do. I would urge you to think otherwise—"

_Ding! _The elevator opened behind her, and out stumbled Nineb's gaunt, lanky form. He stopped in his tracks, fumbling with the bag in his hand.

"Ma'am Emma,—what are you, I didn't think you were—what are you doing here?"

"I can say the same thing of you, Nineb," said Emma coolly. She nodded at the bag in his hands.

"W—what, this?" Nineb glanced nervously at the empty bag. "This is nothing, it's just . . . we were . . ."

On the floor, Kevin groaned again: a long, apropos sound.

"Please, Ma'am, you have to leave. It's not safe for you here."

"Nineb," she said began good-naturedly; the voice of someone trying to get a tourniquet over a rapidly-escalating situation. "You're mistaken – it's _you _who has to leave. I know what you and your 'friends' are here to do. Now, let's just take a moment and think. I would like you to please leave."

"I—but I can't just leave—"

"Nineb," she said through gritted teeth, her patience rapidly vanishing. "I'm not going to ask you a second time."

The dozen grey cloaks watched silently. Behind them, the street was empty and nicely-lit.

"I can't leave—_we _can't leave, Ma'am." said Nineb finally. He was hanging his head, like a child finally admitting to something. "I'm sorry."

"No, Nineb!" she suddenly exclaimed. "You're trying to _blow up_ my family's building. You can't just say 'I'm sorry.'"

"I'm sorry," he repeated miserably. "And I'm sorry for saying sorry—it's just, Ma'am, we have no choice. If we leave, we're as good as dead. We can't just—"

"Who is threatening you? Nineb, talk to me."

"We have to do as he commands. Otherwise, no more serum. Those were the rules. No more serum. Goodbye to our brains—"

"No more serum? Wait, are you here to steal more chemicals—?"

The lights in the lobby suddenly hummed. A light gust of air crawled on her skin. Everything sharpening into harsh-focus. Now she understood.

Behind her, the grey cloaks seemed to anticipate the end of the conversation. They began rummaging in their bags.

"Yes, Ma'am," said Nineb timidly, reading the look on her face. "I'm sorry."

Behind her, the grey cloaks moved in different directions – some went for the stairs, others went to the elevators; some knelt at the corners of the lobby, laying down wire. Emma stood there, trying to think of something to do.

"I can help you, Nineb. I can help _all _of you."

"How? Do you have cure?"

"I—"

Instinctively, she looked toward the elevator, which would take her down to the bunker, where Lucius and Alfred worked furiously with their medical instruments, where her brother lay in the serum coma. _I'm trying to make a cure, Emma. Trying to. _

"I'm sorry, Ma'am," said Nineb, incapable of looking at her face. He was looking down, as if he could see through the hundreds of feet of concrete, seeing Lucius and Alfred searching for a cure. "Please, you have to run."

"No," she said in a voice that was not her own. It was like her body was moving off its own volition. "I'm not going to let this happen. No!"

One of the grey cloaks, a woman, watched her with dead eyes. They all had those dead eyes. The woman began to step around Emma.

Emma realized it would have to become physical. It had to.

"Ma'am, I really don't want to do this. But—"

Emma grabbed the arm of the nearest grey cloak—a woman with filthy, broom-stick hair and an upturned, cleft lip—and pulled.

"No, drop that bag. I said drop it!"

The woman, gaining a glint of rage in her eyes, pulled her arm back. But Emma did not relent. A tug of war ensued—pulling and scuffling, and finally a terrible _crunch!_

"Oh my god," Emma stepped back, horrified. "Oh my god, I—I am so sorry."

The woman's forearm was snapped outwards into an L shape. A bone stuck out; sallow-looking and pale.

"I didn't mean to—I mean, I—"

The woman, however, observed her bent arm was if it was a trivial concern: a mismatched pair of socks, a mustard stain on a shirt. Without flinching, the woman grabbed the broken arm with the other and—snap!— the arm was back in place.

The woman flexed her arm, testily. Like new.

"How did you—?" The horror and wonder was fully alive in Emma's chest: this was not possible. This was a dream.

The woman shifted her dead, unmoving eyes back onto Emma. And quite slowly, a skirmish-sized group of grey cloaks appeared behind the woman. They were all marching toward Emma.

"Go! Ma'am, go!"

Nineb threw himself before Emma, pushing her toward the elevator while he faced down the grey cloaks. "You must go, Ma'am! You must go!"

"No, Nineb, no." Emma never felt more emotions in her life; a crazily mixed bag of hormones shook and blended together: the cowardly cortisol gripping control over her motorfuctions: run run run; and always the adrenaline reminding her of the people underneath the bunker, angering her beyond reason.

Distantly, she heard Nineb's protestations; too late. She was already grabbing the nearest man and pulling. And when Emma Trevor pulled hard on something, using all her strength, very rarely did it not go in her favor. The man flew; and another grey cloak appeared to take his place. Emma again engaged him; as she fought, the lobby, the serum, the bunker slipped away. A furious existence of punches thrown, kicks avoided, ducking and underhooking movement. So much greyfog and she was a purling predator; evasive, sly, but always moving. Everything muted and spherical, like a fishbowl world. Slipping, swimming, savoring. Emma Trevor never felt more emotions in her life – a sense of total presence and terror. This was _living. _

Nineb cried suddenly—Emma's felt her neck snap backward—and the world rushed back into focus.

She hit the floor hard—a sudden shattering of tile and her eyesight blurring in an out while a relentless horn—loud and blaring—occupied her left ear. The floor trembled. Blood on the tile.

"EMMA! RUN!"

It was the use of her real name that snapped her out of it; Nineb was jumping on the back of a man—a man who had a very long sword in his hand, who had been standing over Emma in a killing stroke position. _He could have killed you, _she thought distantly.

"EMMA!" yelled Nineb again. "RUN!"

She kicked the man with the sword in the face—her heel connected perfectly on his cheekbone, and sent him flying across the room. Nineb fell to the ground, for the moment safe and hidden underneath the seething surf of the rest of the grey cloaks. Emma struggled to her feet, witnessing the scene before her: a dozen greycloaks lay in their backs; legs broken, arms caved in, bruised faces. She had dished out a severe punishment. She had, for the first time in her life, actually let loose.

"S—so there," she gasped. The tile lurched underneath her—instinctively, she reached for support. A gassed emptiness now—more than any training run along the hillside. She gulped air and it burnt her lungs. She tried to clear her vision but her head thumped with pain – her fingertips brought back blood when she inspected it. Someone had hit her hard.

Her heaving chest was the only rapidly moving thing; the defeated grey cloaks lay on their backs, moaning involuntarily. Nineb then suddenly got to his feet; a rapid, vertical ascent in a mass of lateral bodies.

"Emma," he began slowly, he was looking at her like she had just drank poison. "You need to go."

"Nineb," she panted. Stitches in her rib; pounding at the crown of her head. "We can talk about this later. Right now, I need you to get me an aspirin—and call an ambulance for all these people. Several ambulances."

Suddenly the moaning hushed. The creaks of knees. The scrape of feet. Grey cloaks slowly getting back on their feet.

"You've got to be joking …" Emma, limping, cradling her arm to her rib, retreated to the elevator. She pressed the down button furiously. Behind her, angry moans, footsteps growing louder and closer. Breathing. The sound of clothes dragging on tile. Hurry please hurry please hurry please.

The elevator opened, and she all but fell in. She pressed the code 1-9-3-9 into the console and prayed. The grey cloaks were coming at her. The foremost—the man she had kicked in the face with her heel— was only a few feet away. His jaw had been torn away by the kick. It hung like a pendulum by the mandibular. He was fixing it back into place as he walked, staring at her as he limped.

_Ding! _The elevator doors closed, inches away from the man's face. Heavy pounding on the chrome doors of the elevator; a groaning sound like an animal dying. Then silence—humming as the elevator kicked into motion. Emma meanwhile pressed into a corner, breathing heavily. Nineb was right. She had to get out Wayne Enterprises. And they needed to hurry.

She came flying out of the elevator, screaming.

"We need to get to get out of here—Now!"

Her voice rebounded in the echo of the bunker. Lucius and Alfred both looked up from their workstations – their hands busy, their faces quizzical.

"Roland's men, they're here!" she continued, gasping and panicky. "His army is here. They're going to destroy Wayne Enterprises!"

Alfred very patiently put down his clipboard. "Emma, my god, you're bleeding."

"First aid is on the table," murmured Lucius, twisting the dials of a microscope.

"Did you not hear what I just said?" exclaimed Emma. "They're putting explosives all around the building!"

"Emma, calm down. Let me see the wound on your head. My god, what happened to you—"

"LISTEN!" she pushed away Alfred's hand. "There are dozens of them. I couldn't stop them—they're too strong. They're not normal. Roland's holding them ransom: if they don't follow his orders, he cuts them off the serum. Now please! We have to go—help me move William. We have to get out of here—!"

She moved around William's sleeping figure, making to lift her brother off the bed. Alfred stopped her.

"Calm down, Emma. Wait, just wait. Clearly, you've had a bad fright. Nobody is going to hurt you or your brother. We have plenty of backup measures in this bunker. I'm sure we can—"

"NO!" she screamed. It was infuriating—why didn't they understand? "There's no time for that Alfred. Help me move Will. We have to go."

"Emma, we can't move William until he's recovered from—"

"He's going to die—we _all _are," she said angrily. She slammed her foot down on the slate of the bunker. "Dammit, this entire building is going to come crashing down on us if we stay. What don't you two understand about that!?"

Alfred stood back, confusion on his face. But also a shade of doubt, of fear.

Lucius, who had been listening carefully, suddenly stepped out from behind the microscope.

"Lucius," said Alfred slowly. "Is it possible?"

"Not entirely implausible," said Lucius. He walked over to the computer station. "Assuming they put the charges along the support columns. It wouldn't take much explosive either, relative to the building. Once the bottom floors are wiped out, gravity does the rest, like in a controlled demolition."

Lucius typed into the main computer and searched the camera feeds. He was leaned over, eyes narrow while reading, when suddenly his entire body stiffened— his eyes went wide.

Alfred suddenly looked very pale. "Oh."

"Finally," said Emma irritably, relieved that they now finally understood. She started again on William, slipping her arms underneath his back. "Help me get Will out of here—"

Alfred shook his head. "He's on medication, Emma. If you move him it could send him into shock."

"Then what the hell do we do?"

"We need to get him and the bed out of here."

"He's not going to fit inside the BMW that Lucius and I drove here, Alfred."

"No to worry," said Alfred speedily. "We'll just take the other car—"

A jolt of hesitation struck Alfred's face; he had some something he shouldn't have said. A slip of the tongue, a secret tumbling out of carelessness.

"It's okay, Alfred," said Lucius, rushing over with an armful of paperwork. "They were going to find out anyway."

"Find out what?" said Emma, annoyed and confused. "What are you two talking about?"

Lucius ran to the cabinets. He opened a drawer produced out a polished wooden chest; it looked like an expensive cigar box. He opened the box: a dozen keys laid out on a cushion.

Lucius threw Alfred a pair of keys. "Hangar 4."

Alfred caught the keys. "Does it have gas? How do you know it even works—?"

"I checked last week. Ran maintenance on all the vehicles."

"Really?" said Alfred, a ghost of a smile on his face. "Why did you do that?"

Lucius hurried with the paperwork; pale, out of breath, but a sliver of mischief underneath his movement, like a lawyer hiding a last-minute trick. "I don't know. Seemed like the right thing to do."

Emma was confused. "What is going on between you two—"

"Nevermind that, help me, Emma," said Alfred. A change had overcome him; he was focused and alert; no longer the puttering, hesitant butler but an old warhorse, coming to life at the onset of an emergency. "William is on dialysis and oxygen. These machines are heavy. I need you to them on wheeled platforms."

Emma squatted and deadlifted the dialysis machine onto the platform. She did the same with the oxygen tanks. It took her less than ten seconds. She looked at Alfred. _What's next?_

Alfred was sure, steady movement; yanking up the side-rails of the medical bed; dis-engaging the braking mechanism on the wheels of the bed, and gathering the IV drip and other medical tubing into a fist.

"Let's move," he said, wrinkly forehead knitted with focus. "Steady now. These machines are fragile. We're going to put him in the bed of the—"

The first explosions shook the bunker: distant-sounding but powerful, like a volcano erupting far away. Vibrations ran through their chests like a bass speaker. Bits of dust fell from the ceiling. A low, lurching sound – like the concrete was groaning.

"Hurry," whispered Alfred. His eyes were more alert now, frail limbs trembling from both age and adrenaline. "I imagine that's the first round. They'll be hitting the second to give the demolition its momentum any moment—"

A second wave of explosions: furious, thunderous clamor. Much closer, much louder.

Behind them came Lucius. He was sprinting. "Go go! We've got maybe a minute!"

Giant pieces of the ceiling cracked in spiderwebs; support columns all around them twisted and crumbled. A giant piece of the floor cracked open – the innards of the earth exposed and inviting.

"Hangar four!" Lucius screamed. "Go go!"

They charged toward the hanger as the world began to collapse all around them—and William, jostling about in bed, sleeping, totally immune to the panic surrounding. Go! Go! Inside the hanger waited a tarp-covered vehicle: large and impressive like a sleeping beast in a cave. Lucius pointed his keyring toward the vehicle, and the dormant beast awakened from slumber. A snarling, bellowing engine. Hot air fuming out of the exhaust. The steady trembling of the chasis. It was some sort of car.

"Pull him around the back!" yelled Lucius. He yanked the tarp away.

Emma almost stopped in her tracks. It was some type of tank, but the body was too elongated, and there were no treads. Rude, armored plating across the chassis, and four pairs of massive tires across two axels. At the rear was a greater surprise: an enormous rocket thruster with scale-like plating around the rear spoiler. It looked like a dragon's mouth.

"Put him _where_, Lucius?!" demanded Alfred's angry, shouting voice.

Suddenly the rear of the tank opened its jaws, revealing a large clearing of space in the bed of the vehicle. Emma lifted her brother's medical bed onto the lip of the tank and pushed. The medical bed fit in snugly. Next she lifted the dialysis and oxygen machines. Alfred was struggling to hop in himself.

"Oh, for god's sake!" Emma grabbed Alfred by the rear of his trousers and tossed him into the rear. Suddenly the engine roared, muffling Alfred's surprised yelp.

There was hardly any room for her. Emma grabbed the rear of the tank and shut it closed – Alfred's pleading, shocked face the last thing she saw. There was no time to think—Emma rushed around the side of the vehicle, praying there was space in the cockpit. Lucius did not hesitate when he saw her; he opened the cockpit and shifted to the side to let her in; the tank was already moving when she squeezed in beside him.

"Get us the hell out of here." She sounded exhausted but exhilarated.

Lucius pressed forward on the hrottle with his right hand. The vehicle roared into action. For a second they were going only forward, until Lucius pulled back on the throttle to his left and the vehicle banked a sharp left. There was no steering wheel. The vehicle obeyed the two throttles.

"Lucius!"

A huge meteor of concrete crashed down before them. Lucius banked right and the tank lurched around the impact; not fast enough. The tank, to its credit, took the impact rather well—letting out a dull moan from the impact—while the dashboard computer in the cockpit read: _minor damage – port. _

The bunker was falling apart; wild gusts of dust and falling debris obscuring everything. Wild electric lines hissed with cracking energy; it was like driving through a storm. Now water gushed out of the ceiling. The lights buzzing and dying out, flickering. The bunker submerged into instant darkness, and the room was roaring, and Lucius turned on the headlights. A hellish, end-world nightmare. Fallen crates and tumbling supplies and torrents of water ripping and the whip of electricity momentarily lightening up the apocalyptic scene in unforgettable snapshots.

Lucius swerved around a fallen column. "There's a way out. An access tunnel. It's small, barely large enough for this, but we'll come out on Jefferson street—"

The floor tore open before them. Crates and tables tumbled inwards and disappeared forever. Other strange looking vehicles slid along the bunker and fell into the gaping mouth—it threatened to swallow everything in its yawning jaws.

"Hold on!" yelled Lucius

He pulled hard on an impressive looking throttle—the vehicle exploded forward. Emma flew back and smashed her head into unforgiving chassis. She must have been hallucinating, because the tank was now flying through the clouds of the storm.

"Hold on!"

They slammed down on the other side of the chasm. Bounding upwards and downwards—the tank violently hugging the concrete. Lucius was mad with joy.

"What did I say!?" he was screaming, pounding the steering column. "Does this baby work or what!?"

Emma found herself caught up in the deliriousness: her heart racing, a swirling trance of bloodloss and adrenaline. Death-defying exhilaration—better than any designer drug. What a week, she thought—and almost felt silly for thinking it. What a week.

The tank came on the other side of the bunker, driving toward an opening in the wall. There was a tunnel beyond the opening. It was squared like a large air-vent. But the wall was shrinking; her joyous ecstasy shrank down to anxiety. They were not going to make it. The bunker was collapsing.

In the rearview, Emma saw nothing but darkness and smoke and fire. Hell existed there, and this would be her resting place; crushed and trapped beneath all the rubble. Gone, forever.

No time to slow down. Lucius slammed the throttle to the maximum and the tank gained a new speed—infinity. It all slowed down; the collapsing bunker, the pounding of her heart. And in this new moment, a question:

"What is all this!?"

And suddenly they were out of the storm. The darkness and the dust—swept away by bright, shiny light. A bright, aluminum tunnel. Shiny and chrome. And in this new clarity, the answer to her question.

For several minutes they were driving – long breaths of refocusing and processing. Trying to return to normal. They came out into the madness of the city streets—police sirens wailing, dust again but not so thick and cloudy. An airy dust, a broom dust: the dust of a mother sweeping up her home.

Emma found a rear opening in the cockpit. She slid it open and peeked: William asleep on the gurney; Alfred, white as sheet, gave her a shaky thumbs up.

Emma did not return the thumbs up. Too tired for gratitude. Too shaken for steadiness. She returned to her seat and closed her eyes. Lucius drove on – an estranged, guilty silence, something totally at odds with the exuberant survivor's glee they should have been expressing.

He said nothing. She said nothing. But they both knew.

Right before they exited the bunker, Lucius had yelled something over the tumult of the collapsing bunker. Perhaps he thought he was going to die; a last-minute, terror-induced confession. No doubt to its veracity—a dead man has no reason to lie.

Emma rested her head. Her skull pounded again—not only from the wound but with thoughts. Racing, maddening thoughts, drilling deeper into her subconsciousness, splattering brain matter all along her skull. Things rudely yanked out of place. Things were changed forever.

And behind her, the world she had known was gone—collapsed and undone, by what Lucius had said.

* * *

The drummers at the base of the steps slowly gathered to their feet. A movement of molasses and momentum; a grey clay rising and taking shape. Thirteen of them: twelve drummers and one Roland. Each of them identical-looking with their grey cloaks and hoods, swords at their hip, grey sashes at their waist. Same height, same width—same everything.

"Twelve Knights," said Diana. "Like King Arthur."

"There are no kings here, only servants," said Roland's voice—but where did it come from? His voice suddenly projecting from each of the thirteen grey cloaks. A bizarre, reverberating sound – not quite a choir, but a multi-throated beast.

"I don't want to hurt any of you," said Diana. She watched them all. "I only want Roland."

Instead of answering her, the thirteen grey cloaks slowly drew their swords: inevitable, regretful gestures. If you want Roland, you must get through us all.

"Fine," said Diana, whipping her sword in her right hand, squeezing her shield's handle in the left hand. This is the way it must be done.

They slowly fanned around – six going to the left, six going to the right, with one in the middle. A semi-circle of grey; slowly enveloping her. Attack first, she thought. Do not let them set their trap. You are outnumbered.

She charged the left flank - charged with her shield like a battering ram. The nearest grey cloak saw what was coming and side-stepped; meanwhile, two other grey cloaks saw their openings and attacked. She parried with her sword—a wicked, fast sound—and spun on the spot, bringing her shield over her as the side-stepping greycloak returned with his sword. The blow clanked abruptly against her shield. Then both parties drew back, and, breathing more carefully, waited for the next engagement.

Abnormally graceful and coordinated, like ballerinas—Roland's knights moved well. Diana jogged along. Focus on the present. Let the rest of the worries slip away: the soft floor beneath her boots, the roar of the waterfall, the cold cistern air. Bring clarity into your eyes. Thirteen cloaks, and one of them was Roland. Not impossible, but difficult. A safe to crack open, a puzzle to solve: thirteen enemies. Thirteen combinations. Crack it.

She pawed with her sword: searching, exploratory strikes. The grey cloaks answered her every time with fresh, innovative defenses. If she slashed, they backpedaled, if she hooked, they ducked. If she charged, they side-stepped. Diana exhaled sharply, frustration teeming in her mind: they were an iron-locked safe – tough to crack. But there _had _to be a weakness. Everything has a weakness – it was the way of the world.

There! Only for a second, appearing like a glint of sunlight, lay the weakness. A moment of uncertainty as two grey cloaks bumped into one another; they had, briefly, run out of space.

Diana's pulse soared: she had it, the cipher, the code. Now to implement it.

This time Diana did not attack furiously but frenetically – sharp, irritating jabs. She whipped her sword with no real intention of hitting her mark—as a blow struck, she was already on the move, prodding the next grey cloak. Drawing them deliberately into a corner of the fighting arena; fighting on the steps, pulling the rhythm out from underneath them. Ballerinas no more—the grey cloaks stuttered into one another, a hesitation lasting only the briefest of moments, like a skipped digit on a stopwatch, but to Diana's wrath, it was the widest of windows. A blow across the head, a slice behind the knee, a kick to the chest. With each vanquished grey cloak, her finishing blows only became more savage: these were not _normal _foes, after all. Superhumans, tough to defeat. And she made sure they stayed down.

One, two, three—grey cloaks falling to the ground; grey clay falling back into the earth. Returned to dust. Diana's sword the deliverer.

And in the end, only two remained. Diana on one side—breathing heavily, her arms ticked with angry welts and slits. Her hair gangly and knotted, covering her face. She exhales sharply – the hair abruptly moves out her way.

The last grey cloak, standing by the throne—the slippery one, the most elusive to her sword. Roland.

Roland eyed the bodies lying on the ground. "You have not killed any of them."

He said this with great disappointment in his voice, as though he was a professor inspecting a student's work.

"I'm not a murderer," said Diana. "Not like you."

She stepped around the stirring, moaning bodies of the grey cloaks on the floor. Stepping toward Roland.

"No, but you want to kill me," said Roland easily. "And the only way you can kill me is if you kill my men first—"

Enough talk. She launched her sword at his throat. Several hasty footsteps and a quick draw—Roland was backpedaling, holding off Diana's fury. She rushed him up the steps of the throne. Roland parried beautifully; and moving backwards up the stairs, his footwork, staccato and high-kneed, was something to behold. This was a man who had fought many duels—but then again, so had Diana.

No longer a stage of ballerinas, the fight was a closed, intimate affair. Two boxers, slugging. She bullied him with shield and sword and all the time Roland just a millisecond behind: each attack getting closer, his breaths more pronounced and ragged. Diana never relented—some outside part of her mind _knew _she had the fight. And evidently, so did Roland. He gained a rushed desperation; a wild energy. Both fighters understood he needed to re-seize the momentum—any moment he would unleash his own counter-strike.

When it came, she saw it clearly – like a car at the far end of a dirt road. Kicking up dust, telegraphing its presence. It was the opening she needed: she slammed her shield into his abdomen. His body stiffened. The tiniest gasp from underneath his hood.

The sword fell out of his hand. She kicked him squarely on the chest—he flew backwards down the steps, grey cloak whipping around him. To Roland's credit, he turned the tumble into a roll at the bottom of the steps. Already coming out of the roll at a light jog. He was making for a table with more weapons.

Diana threw her shield—straight line of sight, no chance of missing. The shield connected with amazing effect: Roland's body twitched like a jolt of electricity went through it, fell to the floor, and there he stayed.

Now the throne was hers – Diana stood at the landing, looking over the misshapen and broken faces of Roland's army. The thirteen grey cloaks stirring on the ground, slowly gathering to their feet. Diana brought up her sword, warningly.

"The rest of you knights are only alive because of the mercy of my sword. But I am all out of mercy. Stay down, and I'll leave you with your lives. But any who stands up again, I'll leave this cistern with your head."

Unsure glances between the twelve knights; lying there on the floor, awkward angles of their bodies. Perhaps they all pretended to have not heard her, but none of them got back to their feet. They all understood.

What a rush entered her veins: sweeping and reassuring and totally intoxicating. Victory uplifting her. Diana had forgotten this feeling. To be the last one standing. To show them all who was the real alpha in charge. There is your defeated king. At my feet. Who else challenges me?

Her steps down the throne were loud and precise – each step announcing her intentions. Roland managed to roll onto his side. He spat blood from beneath his hood—his hood, somehow, miraculously, still covering his face.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" panted the defeated Roland. "The power to command, to demand."

She drew her blade a centimeter from his throat. "Don't get up."

Slowly, with the tip of her sword, she undid his hood – a brazen, bloodied, and scarred face glared up at her. Everything about him too much: large bushy eyebrows, big ears, and large, steady eyes. Mahogany skin lacquered with sweat. An aquiline nose hanging over arrogant, rebellious lips. But in the pale light of the cistern, the scars on his face glared immensely and reflectively, suggesting all sorts of grotesque origin stories: a boy who suffered battery acid to the face? A craftsman who had fallen into a bucket of glass? A soldier who had stood with his hands tied to a post, underneath a single lightbulb, while some silhouetted interrogator lashed him with a hose?

The intensity inside Diana flickered uncertainly. She had expected a seasoned, white-haired colonel, someone as old as Ra's Al Ghul—but this was just a man, maybe a few years older than her son. On his face, determination had sprouted out from rebelliousness and naivete: a young buzzcut recruit forced to step into the leather boots of a commander, a homeless vagabond suddenly entrusted with an office and suit.

"Not quite what you expected?" he spat a thick wad of blood and mucus on the floor. "It never is, is it?"

A spark of calm in his eye. A refusal to back down. Long-nurtured grievances against the world – Diana's mind went to her son William. He had those same unrelenting eyes.

Diana, struck by a sudden suspicion, pressed the tip of the sword to Roland's chin – she moved his face to a better light. His eyes the color of hazel.

"You still don't get it, do you?" said Roland – bloody smile, trembling chin. "You cannot kill me. It's already started. You're too late."

"Your revolution dies with you," said Diana, pressing the swordtip a little deeper.

"N—no," said Roland, a trickle of blood now edging down his throat. "Anyone can be the Paladin. If you kill me, one of my followers will put on the hood."

"Nobody will remember the 'Grey Paladin,'" she leaned closer, spitting her mockery into his face. "Did you think that name went unnoticed? But you're not him. You'll never be him."

"I wouldn't be so sure – maybe I knew a side of him you never did."

Diana gripped her sword. She had heard enough. One quick swipe of her sword, and that arrogant smirk would be gone forever.

She lifted her sword—Roland's eyes widened with glee—did he _want _this? Did she?

Clark suddenly moaned in the corner. "Di . . . don't. That's not our way."

Her sword hesitated in the air. She had completely forgotten about Clark.

"Di," said Clark. He struggled to his knees, his hand covering the wound at his spine– he looked like an old man with a bad back getting off the couch. "He's defenseless. He's giving himself up."

"It's too late for that, Clark. This man, if we leave him alive—"

"That isn't for us to say, Di. We have to bring him in."

The sword still in her hand—one fell swoop, and she could sleep a little safer, a little more secure. Her children would be safe – no more late night nightmares; waking up to find your children kidnapped. Just let your hand fall. Gravity pulling on the sword. Forces of nature – only natural for this to happen.

"Your colleague is right," said Roland, mischief brewing in his voice. "I give myself up—but are you willing to cross that line?"

"Di, don't do it. He's surrendered. Please."

"He doesn't mean it, Kal-el," said Diana, her voice trembling. Sword shaking; hesitation splitting her into two. "He just wants to buy time."

"The Princess is right." Roland slowly raising his arms above him, an explicit gesture of surrender. "The smart thing would be to kill me. I will never actually give up. But yes—I surrender."

"Di, you're not like him. _We_ aren't like him."

"You're more like me now than ever, Princess. You want vengeance. The world has done you a wrong, and you wish to correct it. Do it. You know it's the right thing to do."

Roland, lying sprawled on the ground, was watching her with his hazel eyes totally and completely opened. A two- way street; because she, for a brief moment, saw him totally and completely. Inside of him raged determination and wild belief. He _wanted _her to kill him. He was not afraid of death.

In another life, she could have admired that sense of purpose, it was a shining lighthouse in a storm. A magnetic pole. Few men and women in history possessed that energy – you wanted a piece of it for yourself. She closed her eyes, only for a moment, and through her eyelids came the image of her son's condition: William lying in a medical bed, sick and poisoned. What terrible image would haunt her memory forever—Emma lying face-up in an abandoned lot? A silhouette in a hospital bed? A phone call in the middle of the night? An empty baby crib?

Roland was right – she hadto kill him. What other choice did she have? His simple presence threatened her family, like an inevitable pestilence lurking in a ruined city. But she was no murderer—she was a _mother_. A mother protected her children—she protected life itself. Mother, maternal, and nurturing. Mother earth – we are all born from her. And yet we all die by her, too,

Two hands on her sword: two different women. A murderer and a mother. Each of them inside her, fighting to do the right thing.

And in the torrent of images, she saw Bruce – the man whom she had loved. He was traveling through the veil, appearing before her eyes, telling her he understood—Life and death, black and white—blurred by a thin grey line. Never easy, never simple. Part of the same fabric. He had tried to the right thing once, and it had cost him his life.

"Di! NO!"

It all came down—her sword, her wrath, and the cistern itself. There was a cracking sound, and a large piece of rubble fell from the high-ceiling of the cistern. It seemed to fall for what seemed like eternally—empty, quiet, capturing the eye of everyone in the cistern—before crashing into the moat of water. Spectacular, amazing—_distraction._

"Di! Look out!"

Roland's heel slammed into Diana's jaw—she was too busy with the ceiling. The kick sent her staggering backward. She clumsily brought the sword down, but Roland had already vanished..

The cistern walls quaked with movement. More pieces were falling, bigger and bigger. The roar of explosions—muted and pillowed by the cistern walls—vibrated in everyone's chest. The sound was deep and measured, almost philosophical, and for that reason it suggested chaos reaching across unfathomable distances, like a collapsing star in a far-away galaxy. Extreme conditions rendered harmless by the massive interlude of space.

On the surface, high above the cistern, something very wrong was happening.

"I told you," drawled Roland's lush voice – his voice seemed to come from the very walls of the cistern itself; a force of the earth, a surging demon from the underworld. "It's begun. We are tearing down the pillars of greed and idolatry. And we are _pulling _them down." He suddenly laughed – a cracking, gleeful cackle. "You don't even know where we are, do you?"

The ceiling was crumbling now. The vibration increasing. Giant craters crashed into the moat in spectacular explosions of water. Sleet of punishing rain and rubble fell upon the cistern, and Roland laughing above it all.

"We did all this right underneath your nose! But no one pays attention to the scum! No one notices the servants—and yet we are here to serve!"

Roland's voice stirred the grey army into action – all of them pulling their hoods over, picking up their swords. An army of pariahs. Of the unwanted and expulsed. Nobodies, all of them. And yet together—a storm on the horizon.

Behind her, Clark was limping on one side. His face completely pale and sickly. "Di, something's happening on the surface. Something really bad. We have to get out of here."

"If he and his army escapes, that'll be the end of Gotham, Clark. We have to stop him here."

"Are you insane?! We can't stop him, Di. There's too many of them. We have to help the city."

The grey army advanced upon them – frayed boots marching out of beat; threadbare cloaks sweeping the floor, uneven distribution of height and size. Misshapen bodies and missing limps. A zombie tsunami coming forth to wash over them all.

"The revolution has begun!" thundered Roland's voice. "Go forth and serve! Purge this city of its greed. Rip down the institutions, tear down the false gods. You are the avenging angel, the instrument of the righteous and fair! You who have known only loss in your life will have everything to gain! This city is built on the loan of your sacrifice—it is time to call upon that debt!"

The army broke around Diana and Clark like an abutment against the sea—the army crawled up the sides of the cistern; giant craters of the ceiling crashed down. They disappeared into the tunnels; torrents of water suddenly gushed out of the tunnel's mouth. The army was moving up to the surface, while the city seemed to be sinking down.

Clark pulled on her arm wildly. "Di! This place is collapsing! We have to run!"

There! Within the whirpool of grey, Roland appeared—his hood pulled back, his face shiny with blood and belief. Diana snapped out of Clark's grasp.

"Di, no—!"

She rushed forward into the sea of grey bodies; Roland riding high on the waves. The cistern collapsing, the tunnels overflowing, an army advancing—none of it mattered. The only thing that mattered was her children, her family—why?

"Why!?" screamed Diana. She swung wildly – her feet sloshing on the water, her eyes blurry from the rain. "Why my family!?"

Clark was shouting behind her; the cistern roaring. And Roland, wild-eyed and bracing like a captain in a storm, locked eyes with her. She would remember his face—a seachange of emotion. Serious, focused, almost sympathetic earnestness. This locked moment only for a heartbeat – the eye of the hurricane, the balancing of the deck as a ship crests a tidal wave. Only a second, forever.

"Why did you hurt my children?" her eyes pleaded. "Why did you attack my family?"

And Roland's eyes, swollen and blooded and that familiar hazel-color, countered. "Not _your _family."

And he was gone—swept away by the grey storm. Diana herself felt Clark pulling her away, pushing her upward, yelling into her ear, as the ceiling totally collapsed and water flooded the belly of the cistern – the camp swept away, all those crates and supplies and weapons. All of it second-hand and worthless—and therein lied the genius. The audacity of it, the cleverness. Something so visibly right in your face. Hidden in plain sight.

Diana and Clark came out of the sewers with the disorient still in her eyes. Clark coughing and favoring his left side; Diana humming with dread and amazement. They found themselves on the Old Gotham side, and already a staticky sensation of dread and excitement surrounding them; movement accruing, a city rudely awakening. On the other side of the river, a dust plume had appeared at the center of New Gotham: ugly, column-shaped, and impenetrable. Like a dark tower. And now the flurry of sirens echoing throughout the city: of ambulances, of police, and of vengeful angels.

Clark leaned heavily on Diana. With what looked like a final exertion of consciousness, he pointed with a limp finger, and slurred. "Look."

The grey army surged on the bridge – traveling faster and nimbler than any human being aught. A shiver of dread lodged in her spine. Inhumane speed; inhumane morality. The army teeming and twisting over one another, moving as an ethereal spirit of light – whips of excited particles, of dancing coronas and shimmering weightless nebulas. All of it grey and hungry and ready to slip between thresholds, slip through doorframes, and carry away the souls of the greedy and the decadent. All while delirious and triumphant in its harrowing, divine, revolutionary right.


	22. Chapter 21 - The City Under Siege

Chapter 21

Wooziness sunk his body – falling backwards into soft linens and pillows. A pressure on his skull, like a heavy bird sitting on his forehead. Water, for goodness sake. Each swallow of air like a parcel of broken glass. His eyes closed: obscure shapes and images came to him in the darkness. Cold and wet memories slipping by—the grey.

"Easy now, Master Trevor," said an omniscient, pleasant voice. "Your body is still recovering. Welcome back."

William recognized that polite accent anywhere. Very carefully, William tested his eyes: a blurry world. Soft blue wallpaper and white wainscoting, his bedroom materializing before his crusty eyes. He was in bed. And to his right, an IV stand and a heartbeat monitor. Alfred on the left side, sitting on a loveseat, stirring a green drink in his hand.

William's throat croaked with the labor of speaking. "Water—"

"Drink this."

Alfred handed William the drink: thick and putrid looking. William eyed it doubtfully.

"It's a vitamin super-dose with protein and fat. You haven't eaten anything."

William took the drink and sipped.

"You're not drinking for taste, Master William. Go on. Drink it all."

The green liquid tasted exactly how it looked: horrendous. But the liquid was a cool salve against the hot blistering in his throat. William drank it all: the coldness of the liquid sliding down his esophagus and permeating deep in his chest. He handed the empty glass back to Alfred.

"How long?" William swallowed a gulp of air. His throat no longer burned.

"Three days." Alfred took the empty glass and stood up—then, as a sudden afterthought, added. "It's been a week since the birthday party."

Alfred tinkered with the medical equipment by the bed, reading charts and taking down numbers. William meanwhile shuffled upright in the bed, his mind working hesitantly, as if a great fog blanketed the direction of his thoughts. Objectively, it was clear and obvious that something terrible had happened—why else would he be in bed with medical equipment? William inspected himself, flexing his limbs and extremities: no amputations, no paralysis, no contusions or surgical wounds of any kind. So why was he here?

"Your family will be very happy to see you're awake, Master William," said Alfred. "We've all been very worried about you. How do you feel?"

"I feel . . ."

The truth surprised him—it made him suspicious. The headache in his skull rapidly vanishing, as if that bird on his skull had flown away. His throat slippery and smooth; his limbs eager for a walk down the street.

"Master Trevor?"

William sat up fully in bed. The room no longer blurry but well-lit by the rays of morning. Through the window, a morning sky daubed with clouds. A healthy sun.

Suddenly his stomach crooned with hunger. William looked around the room hopefully.

"We'll move you to solid foods in the coming days," said Alfred without looking up from the medical equipment. "There might be a few incoming episodes of nausea."

"I feel fine, Alfred," said William. He tossed the linens off of his body, exposing a pair of pale, skinny legs. "I'm just hungry."

"Get back in bed. You're in no condition to be on your feet."

One pale leg swung over the bed. "I feel _fine_, Alfred. I just want to get something from the kitchen."

Alfred looking up from the medical equipment. "You can't eat yet, not before we give you the injection of—"

The word _injection _like a spark of flame on a bed of kindling. Immediately, wicked flames of memory: a cold and wet sojourn into the underworld of Gotham. Dank and dark tunnels around. The honeycomb cistern; the camp. Dragged underneath his arms by cold, stoic soldiers. Grey all the time—grey morals, grey clothing, a grey army.

The injection. The black serum. The eyeless girl at the waste factory.

Everything had come rushing back with that single word—William swung his leg back onto the bed. A spinning sensation robbed him of his balanced—if he tried walking now, he might fall forever.

The heartbeat monitor suddenly began beeping urgently.

"Easy, easy, Master William," said Alfred's worried voice, like he was talking someone off a ledge. "You're safe now, the worst of it is over."

But that was a lie. The worst of it lay ahead: again, his mind haunted by the eyeless girl at the factory, her body eaten and gouged by ravenous, rabid animals. And William was one of them now. How long until?

A wave of rage sprung up inside of him: it engulfed his heart, his hopes, his sense of self. How could he have been so stupid? To think that he, a young boy, could go up against an entire army? He was only twenty-one years old. And now, his life was essentially over—all because of his determination to be a 'man.' To prove it to them all that he was capable. What a stupid boy.

The heartbeat monitor beeping furiously now: _stupid stupid stupid. _

"Master William! Please calm down. I'll have to give you a sedative if you don't."

William couldn't swallow. _I'm going to lose my mind. _It was his greatest gift. The one thing that set him apart from his sister, from his mother and father. And now it was gone.

Alfred grabbed William's hand and pulled; William snapped out his thoughts, briefly.

"This changes nothing, Master William. Do you understand me? You are going to be fine. I've talked with Lucius and Ra's Al Ghul. You will remain your own man, your choices will remain yours. It's going to be okay."

William swallowed a hard lump of air. "How long?"

"What do you mean?"

"How long do I have before the . . . ?"

William left the explicit half of the question unsaid: the girl at the factory, the cannibalism.

Alfred's tone became hard and final. "That is not going to happen, Master Trevor."

"Is there a cure?"

A fleeting cloud of doubt smudged the hardness in Alfred's eyes. It told William all he needed to know.

And very methodically, the heartbeat monitor slowed down to normal. A resolute stillness assumed itself over the room. Making everything intense and aware.

"Okay," said William. Balanced or not, the world was still spinning—literally, and William needed to catch up with it. "I need to go the lab. I need to see Lucius."

"Master William, get back into bed."

"I cannot waste the little time I have with bedrest, Alfred."—William swung his feet over the bed. Fleeting moment of vertigo, rocking on his ankles, cold tile underneath the hard skin of his heel—"Do you think you can cure a biochemical compound with positive thinking? I need to get out. I need to run tests. Synthesize some kind of alleviant."

Alfred grabbed William's wrist. "There are people working on that very issue, Master William._ You _need to rest."

"Let go of me, Alfred."

"I will not. Get back into bed."

"I said let go—!"

They struggled, and William, in a flash of annoyance, pushed Alfred away.

Alfred spun backwards—spectacularly and forever-seeming. A look of pure shock on his descending face—Crash! Alfred knocked over a silver tray, knocked over an end table. He fell in a disheartening heap on the wainscoting. The silver tray spun on the cold tile, making a brassy top-hat sound – then the sudden, choking silence.

The heartbeat monitor beeped.

"Alfred, I . . ."

William stared at his hand as though he were seeing fingers for the first time. It did not make sense: a simple little push, barely enough to push a plush pillow over its side. By the wainscoting, Alfred had the same expression on his face: what the hell just happened?

Frantic footsteps raced down the hall. The door slammed open and William's mother, heaving, appeared over the threshold. "I heard a crash! Is everyone you okay!?"

Diana looked wildly around the room: William, standing upright with his hand before him, and at Alfred, lying against the wainscoting, clutching his arm tenderly against his rib.

"Will, Alfred . . . what's going on?"

Emma and Steve appeared behind Diana, glancing around the room hurriedly, trying to catch up.

"It's alright, it's alright," said Alfred pleasantly. "I fell over while trying to get a glass for Master William. There's nothing to worry about. Really, Diana, it's nothing."

"Alfred," said Diana, kneeling to Alfred's level. "Your arm."

"A simple sprain, Di. No worry, really."

Diana loomed over Alfred's arm, looking at it like a mineralogist would a jewel. "You said you fell?" she repeated, clearly in disbelief.

"I slipped. I think it might have been the rug."

Emma glanced over at William's bed. Nothing but cold tile surrounding it. "What rug?"

Alfred threw an irritated look at Emma. "I thought your brother was the detective."

"Will?" said Steve, approaching William slowly. "Are you okay, bud?"

William was still looking at his hand—there was nobody else in the room except himself and the hand. "I only pushed him," he said quietly. It was like he was speaking to himself. "I don't know what happened."

Ra's Al Ghul's words shivered in all of their ears: _They are strong. They are monsters. Too far gone to be saved._

They all watched William quietly, like nervous animal wranglers.

"I think we should leave your brother alone," announced Diana in a careful tone.

It was clear who she meant by _we: _everyone except herself.

Steve helped Alfred up off the floor. "C'mon, Alfred. Up you get. I'll take you to the hospital."

"Oh, I'm not sure if that's necessary. I can splint the bone downstairs and save everyone—"

Diana gave Alfred a long, flat look.

"Hospital it is, then," said Alfred hastily. The two men walked out, muttering under their breaths.

Emma meanwhile stood with her feet seemingly glued to the floor. She kept stealing glances at William, seemingly incapable of looking at her brother directly. She wanted to say something but did not know how to begin.

"Emma," said Diana curtly. "Why don't you make your brother a tea? I think he wants one."

But Emma kept stealing glances at her brother. Fear clearly on her face—biting her fingernails, looking like a worried mother watching a child on stage.

"Emma," repeated Diana, this time with more compulsion in her throat.

Emma jumped like a startled rabbit and hurried out of the room. Her footsteps down the hallway and fading down the stairs—gone. Now Diana and William stood in the room alone.

Diana crossed the distance between herself and her son. Her face cut with hardness and intensity—for one wild moment, William believed she was going to strike him, but at the last possible moment, her arms flew around William. A massive, total-body hug. Like every fiber of her body was reaching up to hug him. Her lavender shampoo, the beady drops of sweat clung to her collar. William was silent—he did not know how to respond to so much affection. It was like being hugged by a mountain; something so grand and beyond him he felt ashamed to be in its presence.

"My son," she whispered into his ear. A sound so sharp and tight and visceral he could pick it up and cut someone with it.

"I'm alright, Mom. Really. I feel fine—"

"Shush, don't speak."

She squeezed his entire body – for a moment, the fear of danger rushed back: was she going to squeeze until he snapped into two? A lethal, loving hug: a boa constrictor tenderly killing its prey.

"I want you to forget everything, okay? Just forget it all. Nothing else matters except that you're safe. I love you, William Trevor. Okay? I love you with all of my heart."

"I love you too—"

Another squeeze; the boa constrictor tightening. "Don't speak. Just listen, Will."

William resigned himself to silence: he was literally running out of breath.

"I know what's going on must scare you. I know you've heard stories. I swear to you that I will do everything in my power to save you—to _help _you," she added hastily. Breathing now, holding him closer; she was carefully choosing her next words. "But I want you to know that you're not alone. You're not going to turn into one of those things. I swear it. You're going to be okay. . . okay?"

William gingerly moved his neck. Too sweaty now; her breath steaming up his collar, making him itch. "Thanks, Mom. But can you—?"

"We're going to beat this, Will. I swear to you."

"Mom, I can't breathe, please."

"Oh."

Her arms vanished around him; sweet air rushed back into his veins. The room coming back into center focus. His arteries carrying oxygenated blood to his muscles. Clarity returning to his limbs.

His mother still wore that look of hardness and intensity. She bit her lip, folded her arms, trembling, like she wanted to both cry and shout at the same time.

William frowned. "What's wrong, Mom?"

"What's wrong!?" she repeated, her eyes widening. "You nearly got yourself killed, William."

The eyeless girl appeared in the corner of his bedroom, tucked away like an oversized teddy bear. Her lips bent with smugness, giving her the carved, pupil-less grin of a jack-o-lantern: _you are mistaken, Mother, what happened to your son in the cistern was worth than death. Death is a natural part of life. Nothing about your son is natural. Look at me—I have no eyes; is that natural?_

". . . and I'm just trying to understand what would compel you to go down there," continued his mother. "You're so much smarter than that, William. There's a thing called 'back-up'—surely they teach you about back-up in the police!? Or you could have called me or your dad. Or your sister! Why didn't you call your sister?"

William blinked the eyeless girl out of vision; when he looked up, she was gone. But the woozy nausea he felt from the waste factory—that familiar upswell in his esophagus—had returned.

"Can you answer me that at least, Will? William? _Why_ did you go down there?!"

"There was no time to call anyone else," said William lowly. Breathe, nice and slow. Fight down the nausea. "H—he was getting away."

"But _you_ didn't have to go down there, William. That's what you don't understand. _You_ could have waited."

"I'm Gotham Police, Mom," said William irritably. Why was she asking so many stupid questions? Didn't she realize he was having a hard time breathing? "My job is to protect and serve—"

"Oh, stop it with that!" she said angrily. "You had no business going down there, William, policeman or not."

Now it was all coming out—as surely as the green liquid he had drank earlier threatened to come out of his belly. His mother was regurgitating something from the innards of her being—something foul and festering that she had carried around in her belly for a long time.

"I thought you were going to write parking tickets or pull over speeding cars—not chase psychopathic superhumans down tunnels! From now on you leave those kind of things to me or your sister! Stay at home, watch your little brother—don't try and be a hero, William Trevor! Because this city has a shortlist of men who died too young while trying to be something that they are not!"

She had said all this in a single, long-winded breath. There was the hanging silence—the backdraft of gasping air. Diana breathed heavily—with every breath she became more and more aware of what she had said. William blinked furiously, like he was sitting underneath invisible rain, like he was fighting off the bite of a gust of wind. He understood now—it was nice to have your suspicions confirmed. He was seeing himself under a new lens now—_their_ lens.

"Will," began his Mother, looking sincerely mournful. "I just mean that you aren't cut out for this side of the law. And that's okay, really, it is. Everyone has a part to play in this thing. Some people are better suited for—"

"Preschool is over, Mom," said William quietly. "You don't have to convince the coaches to let your son off the bench and play a couple of minutes."

"You nearly got yourself _killed, _William. This isn't a game. What do you expect me to do?"

"That's the thing, Mom. I never expected you to do _anything _in the first place."

He had heard enough. William stepped around his mother and headed for his cabinets. He started rifling through the drawers, pulling out pants, shirts, and socks.

"What the hell are you doing, Will?"

"I'm getting dressed for work."

"Work?! William Trevor, you are insane if you think I'm letting you got out there—"

"I am a grown man, Mom. I seem to remember you throwing me a party to commemorate that fact," he pulled his pants over one leg. "I can make my own decisions."

"Will, I am in no mood for your games."

She grabbed his arm, a gesture borne out of motherly, angry habit. William reacted coolly: he looked at her and waited for her follow-up punishment: Hit him with a belt? Send him to time out? Make him clean the gutters? There comes a time when a parent loses that authority over their child; a subtle, unseen shift in the relationship. And it goes unnoticed until moments like these: when both sides want different things, and the only thing to do, they both realize, is to heave and breathe. Both sides retreating, a buzzing sensation overcoming them—half-disappointment, half elation—because things are now different forever.

Diana released his arm. William went back to dressing himself.

"William," she said lowly, this time her voice far more subdued. If she wore a hat, right now it would be between her hands. "I'm sorry. But please. You don't understand. It's not safe for you out there."

"It's not safe for _anyone,_ Mom." He buttoned up his t-shirt. Now he was presentable again—William Trevor, the trainee. But now carrying a dark secret underneath; black tendrils of insanity slowly crawling up his spinal cord. "That's what _you _don't understand."

His police badge lay on the cabinet. He pinned it to his chest, and, as expected, it swung loosely on the lapel. He tried fixing it with his hands, and something like habit came to him, a familiar voice calling to him, because wasn't this part of a routine? He dropped his hands, listening to the voice, understanding that this was the part where his mother batted his hands away, her sweet, pleasant-morning tone saying, "Let me."

But his mother's hands never reached out. Instead she produced a black case from her pocket and set it on the cabinet, in place where his badge just was. William slowly opened the case: a syringe and a black vial. Inside the vial, the black liquid scurrying about.

"How often?" said William. In the vial, he saw Roland's words flash out at him: _if your family is any indication, you might just become our greatest student._ What did he mean by that?

"Once a week. That vial should last you a month. Lucius has the rest. He wanted to run some tests on them."

William tucked the case into his pocket, tucking away the puzzle of Roland's last words. "I'll go seem Lucius after work then. Is he at the office?"

At the threshold of the room, his mother paused with her hand on the doorknob, as if suddenly remembering something. "You can't go out there, Will. At least not immediately—hold on, let me explain" she added tiredly, seeing him readying a deep-breathed reply. "Something else has happened while you were in the coma. You won't be able to go to the office. Not even me."

The tone of his mother's voice when she said this last bit—_not even me—_made him uneasy.

"What happened?" he said, as a vine of dread wound around his trestle heart.

His mother remained silent; she nodded to the window. William followed her gaze. Somehow, he knew to look beyond the backyard. His eyes fell onto the city horizon; morning shelves of white clouds and the blue silhouette of the skyscrapers. But something immediately wrong about it. A great gap at the center; a missing pipe in the pipe-organ. A skyscraper had vanished—the tallest, most centered and celebrated of them all.

"Wayne Enterprises," said William. "Where is it?"

The question sounded dumb to him—as if a skyscraper was something one could lose, like a misplaced fork.

What a silly thing to say, said the logic center of his brain.

But its true, said his eyes. Look, it's gone.

Behind him, his mother spoke. "The police have declared Martial Law in Gotham. They're calling it a terrorist attack. It's been like that for two days. People are scared."

But William was only half listening. His feet were cold, his eyes blinking furiously. What was this—some cheap magic trick? Throw a blanket over the skyline and make five hundred tons of steel, concrete, and glass disappear?

"How did . . . what the hell happened?"

But he already knew—some subconscious, ethereal whisper in the back of his skull. Behind him, his mother exited the room, but her worry lingered, as clear and visible as if she had cupped her hands and deposited it on the floor: smoldering, smoking, curling worry.

He closed the curtains on the window—felt like he was closing the curtains on some part of his life. Too much to process. Last week he was celebrating his twenty-first birthday. But he would no longer keep time according to his birthdays – now it was according to this catastrophe: the chase on the bridge, the demolition of Wayne Enterprises. The week the Grey Paladin rode into town.

William came down the steps and into the kitchen – his family huddled around a laptop on the kitchen island. A news anchor on the scene: _…while police authorities remain mute on the demolition, many local politicians and business leaders are labeling the attack a clear act of terrorism. Newly appointed Police Commissioner Ellen Yindel will hold an official conference later today, where many expect her to extend the city's period of Martial Law for another week._

William stepped over the threshold of the kitchen – his family glanced up at him. Their normally bright and healthy faces cut up like roughly hewn stones: sleepless, gaunt, and sallow. This was a first indeed. He was the only one in the kitchen who looked restful.

"Is there anything to eat?" he asked.

Nobody spoke—all of them spellbound by the laptop. But his mother glanced over at the fridge: _leftovers._

Pickled eggs, cucumbers, potato salad, slices of herring, and a loaf of sourdough bread—William served himself at the far end of the kitchen island. He sat on a stool and ate quietly while the news anchor continued speaking in dictating, factual tones: _More reported attacks on the celebrated financial district of New Gotham. Unseen bandits attacked and infiltrated many of the prestigious stock and trading firms along Main Avenue – destroying computers, raiding cabinets and offices—all but ensuring a temporary halt on securities trading on the avenue. This is biggest shutdown of the Gotham City Stock Exchange since the infamous Long Halloween incidents, twenty years ago . . ."_

Steve suddenly stood up from the laptop, shaking his head, the exasperation of a man who had heard enough. Instead, he fixed a smile to his face, and came around to William. "How are you feeling, son?"

"Goof," said William through a mouthful of zesty sourdough. He swallowed. "I feel good, Dad."

Steve eyed him a little carefully, searching for an undercurrent of deceit in William's voice. But the truth was that William _did _feel good. Steve patted William on the shoulder, mindlessly and affectionally. "Good. That's good, son."

William swallowed one pickled egg after another: briny, pungent, but with the yolky sweetness lurking underneath. He ate some of the cool cucumber to balance out the flavor.

"Hungry," said Diana approvingly. She poured a glass of water and set it before William. "It's good that you're eating, Will."

Steve, now massaging Will's shoulders, agreed. "Absolutely."

"Dad, Mom," said Will quietly; he couldn't chew with his Dad shaking his shoulder girdle; he didn't want to eat while being inspected like a lab rat. "Please."

"Right, sorry," Steve's hands vanished away from Will's shoulders. William realized they were all looking at him funnily: they were waiting for something to happen.

"Alright," said William, tearing off another piece of sourdough. "Let's dispense with the five-hundred pound elephant in the room, yes? Roland injected me with the serum. There, it's over."

In the silence that followed, the news anchor continued in relentless, robotic fashion: … _dozens of eyewitness reports of mysterious 'grey marauders' swarming all around the city. The mayor and Commissioner Yindel both stress that these reporters are unfounded and bear no danger to the city itself . . . _

"Will," said Steve earnestly. "You're going to be fine."

"Yes," agreed Diana. She stood next to Steve now, as if this would add weight to what they were saying. "Completely fine."

Will stuffed a slippery slice of herring into his mouth: redolent smell of vinegar and dill. Absolutely disgusting. "Thanks, I appreciate it. Now, what about Yindel?"

"They swore her in as Commissioner after the events of the bridge," said Steve. He was rubbing his temples. "The major is going to give her emergency powers."

"She's the one who declared martial law in Gotham," added Diana. "After the bridge and the attack on Wayne Enterprises."

"I think I'm going to make some tea," announced Emma suddenly. She had drifted to a corner of the kitchen, looking more nervous than ever. "Yes, tea. Anyone else?"

They all stared at her – they had forgotten she was there.

"What?" said Emma a little defensively. "Coffee is too strong for me right now."

But instead of making the tea, Emma hurried to the sliding door, her lips tight and holding her breath, as if there were no more breathable air in the kitchen. She fumbled with the locking mechanism for several seconds until she got it open—a visible widening of relief on her face—and she stepped out into the backyard, seemingly able to breathe again.

And William, finishing up his meal, had noticed one peculiar thing: his sister was avoiding eye contact with him. He stood up from the stool. "Any more food?"

"I'll make you some eggs," said Diana absent-mindedly. She still watched the laptop—which told William that she would not be making eggs any time soon.

William stood up and raided the fridge one more time—some obscure fleeting hope in him that a ready-to-heat meal would magically appear. The inverse of the magic that had disappeared Wayne Enterprises.

Behind him, the news anchor droned on relentlessly: . . . _Local youth outreach programs are claiming responsibility for these grey marauders, citing 'adolescent delinquents' who are taking advantage of the tumult as a vehicle for teenage rebellion and angst._

"Teenage rebellion and angst," repeated Steve. "They're saying its kids in costumes!? Someone tell me I'm dreaming . . ."

"What did you expect?" said Diana dully. "Yindel doesn't want to cause more panic in the city."

"But they're not saying anything about the _other _thing occurring in the city. They're just turning a blind eye toward—"

"They might still say something Steve," said Diana lowly. "Let's wait and see."

They were talking in code, trying to skirt around William's presence. William closed the fridge door, his belly yearning for more pickled eggs. "People are disappearing, right?"

He said this matter-of-factly; a rhetorical question. A part of him, deep down, had anticipated this all along.

Steve and Diana traded a long look with one another. A ghost of a 'what-did-you-expect?' smile on his fathers's face.

William's belly never felt emptier—empty of food, of hope. "I'm right, aren't I?"

"Nothing official yet," said Steve, abandoning the charade with a defeated shrug of shoulders. "But families have reached out to us. The police aren't any help, with everything that's going on."

The empty feeling ballooned to a zeppelin in William's belly. "High-ranking people?"

A dark, sunken grimace on his mother's face. "Some of our board from Wayne Enterprises. And business leaders, state senators—people who run this city."

_So that's his next move. Poison the powerful, bring them underneath his heel. Like a military coup in South America. _William had to admit: this Roland moved ruthlessly but soundly.

"I have to go into town," announced William, because it was all coming down to this, wasn't it? He was the only one with contacts in the GCPD, he had seen Roland himself; he had the serum in his veins. "I can warn the GCPD. Tell them what's really going on."

Steve was shaking his head again. "You can't, Will. They're not letting anyone into the city."

William picked up his plate and put it into the sink. He opened up the valve: long column of silver-white plunging eagerly out of the faucet, as if it had been bottled up forever. He washed the dish and dried his hands, zipped up his jacket, and fixed his badge. Its silver caught the light and danced rays around the kitchen—playfully, mockingly.

"No, Dad," said William, and a valve inside of William's chest suddenly opened. "They're not letting _you _guys in."

It felt tremendously good; to do something they could not. He relished it for a moment, then headed out of the kitchen.

In the corner of his vision, someone rushed to the kitchen threshold. They were going to cut him off. And William, thinking in a half-beat, was sure it would be his mother, but this morning was full of surprises. It was his father, Steve.

"William," began his father in the too-friendly voice of a bouncer or security guard. "I know I'm the one who cuts you some slack when your mom is involved. But not this time, bud. Not this time."

To the side, his mother watched mournfully. Like she was a spectator at a funeral.

William moved to step around, but Steve doggedly cut him off.

"Dad," said William, his voice understanding, his demeanor patient. "You're in my way."

"I'm your father, Will," said Steve, his voice suddenly hardening with authority. "Listen to me."

Diana stood there, swaying to a non-existent wind. A curdling taking place within her. She did not want to watch was going to happen, but it would be impossible for her to leave. Like a train collision incoming – terrible, unpreventable, and eye-catching.

But no trains collided; no splintering of wrenched metal; no punches thrown, no family bonds broken by abusive fists. William very calmly pulled out his radio off his belt.

"Dispatch, this is Trevor requiring back-up to a potential 39 disturbance call. Civilians in interference with police officer's duty."

The radio was silent for a second. Steve's face was empty and disbelieving.

The radio beeped. "Trevor, confirmed. Send back up to where?"

"Hold firm, Dispatch," said William. He put the radio down. "Well?"

Steve stared at his son. Was it shock on his father's face? Betrayal? Anger? A moment of suspended reality, nobody exactly sure what would happen next.

Very slowly, Steve's lips swelled into a grin. He chuckled.

"Okay." Steve stepped aside – somehow the action defined by grace rather than defeat. "I hope you know what you're doing, Will."

"Me too, Dad," said William. He put the radio away, kissed his Father on the cheek. "I love you. I'll see you guys later."

He moved to kiss his Mother on the cheek as well, but she was silent and faraway as he approached her. Cold and statuesque. Regally beautiful, resembling the Queen he had heard about when he was younger. It hurt him, to see her like that, no matter what bravado he had on. He poured his sorrow into the kiss, squeezed in his regret for how it all turned –nobody's fault, Mom. Who knows why bad things happen?

The kiss did not reanimate her; no storybook moment, no thawing of the ice. Her sorrow and beauty forever transfixed in eternity, like a marble bust of the Classical era: of a mournful pagan goddess, of Demeter watching her child leave to the underworld. William left her, left him, left it all behind and stepped outside into the morning light.

Not a single person outside. Empty driveways. Windows shuttered with the blinds. The swallows flew overhead, their wings joyously askew in their flight. William got into his car. He drove down the hill, and he was certain that dozens of eyes poked out through the slats of windows blinds; everyone hiding, everyone watching. Burrowed rabbits waiting for the sniffing snouts of the wolves to turn away.

He drove on with the black case on the passenger seat. It was the fruit of the underworld he had brought back with him, a pomegranate to stave off the spell of Hades. And William wondered, as he drove, when the change would be upon him. Would it be slow? Would the slavering taste for human flesh replace his morning coffee? William looked himself in the rearview mirror and made a promise to the pale, worried youth sitting there: when the moment came, and his mind started to go, he would put a bullet through his left temple. No return trip to the Underworld for him. This was a one-way ticket.

The traffic ensnared him five miles outside of New Gotham. Cars huddled together like a caravan toward the apocalypse. Onto Mecca or the midnight, sir? William honked indignantly, flashing his silver police badge to the drivers, but there was no way of getting through. After a minute of thinking, William pulled his car out onto an embankment, hit the emergency lights, and started out on foot.

An hour later, William came up on the mouth of the bridge. Thirteen police vehicles blocked the entrance; SWAT teams in riot shields forming a perimeter around the vehicles. On the other side, an angry mob of people wrestling to get in.

William wormed his way through the crowd; his thin, pale, and lanky body slipping through without much effort. All the time the angry and loud voices; the hot collected exhalations of breath, the jostling. Surfing through a sea of pleading: a mother only wanting to reconnect with her children, a lawyer struggling to attend legal briefing; a truck driver screaming about the cross-country voyage he made with a truckload of perishables. Everyone had a story about why they should be allowed through.

William came up to the cordoned line: the SWAT officers in their heavy riot gear, coolly staring down the teeming mob. William held his badge out above him, doggedly trying to get the attention of one of the officers. And then suddenly a voice said:

"Trevor, is that you?!"

Aaron Cash appeared at the head of the line, standing like he was the only thing keeping the peace intact: his hands on his belt, his beefy belly over the lip of his waistband. He waved over to William. "C'mon, cross over quick."

William ducked underneath the cordoned line. For a moment the crowd plunged into a nervous silence: they wanted to see what would happen. Would he be shot? Would he be hit with the butt of the gun? But William came out easily on the other side, the SWAT officers curtly parting to let him in. Emboldened by his success, the crowd teemed forward, ready to try their luck at the passing, but the SWAT officers surged back, lifting up their weapons, not quite pointing at the crowd, but enough to discourage anyone from getting closer. The impasse remained.

William's eyes fell down the long neck of the empty bridge. At the opposite end was another station point with more riot police; their job was to keep the people from _leaving_ Gotham City. And beyond the bridge, all along the cuff of the city, burly military tanks roamed the streets, and body-armored soldiers patrolled alongside. Helicopters disappearing behind skyscrapers, their rotors chopping up the atmosphere of the city into quick, nervous jumbles.

And from behind the skyscrapers, a column of smoke rising into the sky: a tower of greed and gluttony burning in effigy, and all these soldiers protecting the sacrificial pyre.

William could reach out and grab a handful of the anxiety buzzing in the air. Again, the images of a military coup flashed before him: citizens lined up against brick walls, machine guns assaulting the night, tanks rolling over collapsed rubble, and a grey Paladin suddenly seizing control over it all.

"Trevor, I asked what are you doing here?'"

William hurled back to reality. He exhaled. "I need to get to GCPD. I need to talk to the Lieutenant. Could you get me a ride?"

Cash eyed him. "You've been AWOL for days, Trevor. Shit, I'm surprised you're showing your face here."

"I've been at the hospital," said William, because after all, it was not a lie. "I took some flak at the bridge. Couldn't get word out."

Cash's doubtful face turned into a smile: "Shee-it, I wish I could be there when you try and feed the LT that bull-jive."

"I'll borrow a camera from forensics. How about that ride?"

"Yeah, no worries. Although the LT isn't at HQ. She's at City Hall. I'll let them know you're coming."

Cash made a gesture to some nearby officers. The car was ordered. While they waited, Cash had his hands on his waist and surveyed the city.

"Twenty years since the Long Halloween, Trevor. Then the Commissioner retires, and then the mauled bodies. You'd think I'd have known better."

Cash's brown eyes, normally beady and bored, mellowed as he swallowed the state of the sieged city. It was not fear on his face, a painful melancholy: a yearning for youthful innocence. The way he looked at the city was like an old man looking on his younger self—remembering a young boy on the precipice of adolescence, the time before ugly truths and aching loss.

A car honked suddenly; William's ride was here. And Cash, emerging from his daydream, suddenly grabbed William's arm.

"Hold it, Trevor," said Cash seriously. "Once you cross into the city, there's no coming back. No exceptions—not even for cops. Yindel thinks the culprit is still in the city. And she doesn't want to give him an out."

"Who is it?" but William already knew who it was.

Cash nodded grimly. "She's putting a massive task force to hunt him down. If you're not careful, you might be assigned to it."

"How long do you think she'll keep this lockdown up?"

Cash shrugged. "'As long as it takes'—Yindel's words not mine."

Behind them, the car honked indignantly: _are we going or not? _

"Better get going, Trevor. Say hi to the Lieutenant for me."

William struck out his hand. "Thank you, Cash."

Cash looked at William's hand unsurely for a moment. He took it guardedly; as though this was the final goodbye between the two men.

"You just watch yourself, Will. The bigwigs are always looking for a fall guy in times like these—and right now, a police officer who disappears right around the time of a huge terrorist attack isn't the best police officer to be, see what I mean?"

William rode in the backseat of the cruiser while the driver—a burly, wide-chinned officer with a balding scalp—pulled away from the mouth of the bridge. They headed down the throat of the bridge, toward Gotham, toward the tanks and the foot soldiers, toward what felt like certain doom. Cash's words nagging in his ear the whole way: maybe it was not a good idea to go back. Maybe William was making a mistake.


	23. Chapter 22 - The Cigar Cutter

Chapter 22

They entered the city. A strange shift had taken over Gotham; as if an airtight cloth had been stretched over it: suffocating the air, masking the familiar contours of the streets. Familiar businesses and street signs whisked by—but no people. No pedestrians, no customers, nobody about. The tension had swallowed them all. A city abandoned of hope. Now tanks and footsoldiers dominated the traffic. Military checkpoints at every intersection, designed to sniff out any non-desirables. And the few cars and cabs that did dare to try their luck moved like nervous beetles. Quickly scurrying from place to place, hoping to avoid the hungry eye of the predators lurking ahead.

In the backseat of the cruiser, William felt like he was sitting on one cheek the entire time. He assured himself silently: you're police, you're in a police cruiser, you're part of the protectors, not the protected. But he couldn't shake the nervousness clung to his ribs, the irritating fight/flight conflict churning in his abdomen, as the cruiser stopped at a checkpoint—a military officer coming around the driver side door, search dogs sniffing the chassis of the cruiser, and a dozen soldiers with weapons slung over their arms. Everyone watching, waiting, for the slightest twitch of guilty movement.

The military officer looked down at the driver. "You two police officers?"  
"Yes," answered the burly driver. "I'm Officer Carmichael. Back there is Officer Trevor. We are on our way to City Hall."  
"Let me see your credentials."

William handed over his badge and identification card. The driver bundled these into his own and offered the four items to the military officer. The military officer brusquely took them into his possession and stepped away.

William stared at the headrest before him; determined to look neither guilty nor weak. But he also fought to keep arrogance off his face. He didn't want to incense the soldiers, give them a reason to detain him. What a horrible thing, occupation. Either way he cut it, he felt like a criminal, like he had done something wrong. The power these men carried over him was sickening and penetrating—it reached into his very soul, perverted the marrow in his bones. Like a fact of life: William was on one side, and the soldiers on the other.

The military officer came back, shuffling through the badges and ID cards like a bored poker player. "Officer Carmichael, thirty years on the North-east side? Wife works at Olson&Barnes? Two kids at Gotham Elementary?"

The driver stared like he had been gutted by a bayonet; a look of utter annihilation. Was that a threat? The military officer stood there with hips swung, his belly sticking out vulnerably, and waiting for the driver to reply. Nothing had been said, and yet the threat had been laid out perfectly visible as if it had been a polka-dot dress.

For a brief moment, the driver's face cycled through a kaleidoscope of emotions: purple-veined fury, tomato-red outrage, sallow confusion—but finally, inevitably, he settled back onto grey fear: pale, ashen, emasculated fear.

"No need to look worried," assured the military officer. He leaned into the cruiser and placed the ID and badge onto the dashboard. He patted the driver's shoulder. "We just want to make sure you are who you say you are."

The military officer then moved to the backseat window. He rapped the glass with the barrel of his elongated rifle. The driver, still grappling with his new reality, mindlessly pushed a button, and down went the window—it slid down mournfully, perilously. The military officer leaned a gloved hand on the door, with the other hand he flashed William's badge and ID:

"These are your credentials."

Was that a question? William couldn't speak; he offered up a shallow, sweaty nod.

"This ID and badge expire in a week, Trevor."

He said this matter-of-factly, like it was a casual conversation between the two—but underneath this candidness lurked something far sinister. There stirred an earnest, predatorial hunger. The military man had already made his mind up about the scene, he already knew the answers, but he wanted to draw out the pain, he enjoyed watching his prey walk into a trap.

"You're not real police are you?" The military officer lightly tossed the badge and card in his hand, as if weighing them. "Just why are you heading into the City?"

Gulp. The entire situation wreaked of wrongness, of a total upside-down. William was a police officer of Gotham City—_he_ was the one who asked questions. He was the one who stared down suspects and threatened them with implicit, humiliating tactics. Good god, this was unnerving. William tucked his hand into his pocket—it was shaking too much. He was sweating the ugly reek of stress and weakness.

Outside, the search dogs caught the scent: they pranced excitedly on hindlegs, eager to eat. The soldiers shuffled forward. An air of atavism suddenly seizing them all: predator and prey. The entire world closing in on William.

"I'm a trainee—on a probationary period," he finally managed to say—why couldn't he breathe? The anxiety in the backseat was like a blackhole swallowing all of the air. "I need to report to my LT."

"A trainee," repeated the military officer—dregs of amusement swirl in his voice. "You picked a hell of a week to play cop."

Beyond the checkpoint stood a spired church, looming. So many crenellations and filigree cut into the stone and marble. And on the platforms, the gargoyles hung over the air, watching the scene below them with their throaty, delighted scowls. Fear, terror, and evil—it brought joy to these statues. They wanted to see the military officer give the order: let him fling down his hand! Let the soldiers step forward, weapons hugged close to their chest, and open fire on the little tin car! What's one dead body to the revolution? The smell of death is in the air. This is only the beginning.

But before the military officer could give the order, as he was stepping away from the cruiser to address his men, the military officer's eyes fell onto the black case sitting beside William.

"Glasses?" asked the military officer, already reaching for the case.

What could William do? To dive for the black case would solidify his guilt, to do nothing would bring on an onset of more curiosity: what is this contraband? What is this black liquid? Do you mind stepping outside? We need you to come with us.

The military officer opened the black case. Measured, steady, unflinching gaze – like he was reading an important document. The military officer glanced up. He was no longer looking down at William. He was looking across. Something had changed.

He shut the case. He handed it back. He looked William in the eye. "Everything checks out. Sorry to delay you, _Officer._"

A faint smile on the military man's face—the smile of a conspirator, of a secret society member. William's subconscious always worked faster than his forebrain—suddenly he felt more out of his body than ever. Outside, the search dogs stepped away, the dozen soldiers falling back into line, and the military officer waving them by. The cruiser jerked forward, the motor rumbling frantically, the checkpoint behind them, and the gargoyles slipping away with disappointment on their grotesque faces.

Sorry to delay you, _Officer._

Fear prevented William from swiveling his neck—but in the rearview mirror, the checkpoint grew smaller and smaller, the inverse of the terrifying realization growing bigger and more certain in his chest. The military officer had recognized the serum in the black case.

They passed through Canary Square. They had to take a long route to city hall—around main avenue. Here, for a moment, the monotone emptiness of the city vanished. Colors and light splashed the empty square: Yindel's enormous face blasted across the jumbotrons: a middle-aged woman with eyeglasses and a severe expression. She was speaking into the camera, her voice of a schoolteacher disciplining a student. And her voice—sharp, whipping, and biting: _Batman, Suspect Number One. Batman, Suspect Number One. Batman Suspect Number one._

"Batman, Suspect Number one."He repeated it endless to himself. His mind worked automatically, putting all the pieces into place. It all made sense now: why Roland resurrected the Bat, why Roland had made such a scene at the bridge. He was distracting the audience with slight-of-hand; hiding the trapdoor with irresistible lightshow. While everyone chased the fantastical ghost of the Batman, Roland was tossing a grey hood over all of Gotham; a tightening noose, a gradual warming of the pot. And all the time unseen—like a dark magician disguising himself as a clumsy street performer: something so innocent and silly who would believe the truth?

They rounded about Main Avenue; William caught the sight of firetrucks and police cordons around the avenue; but as for the bombed site itself—he could not get near it. It looked like the investigation was still underway.

Hard to believe he was driving here a week ago, arresting citizens for trivial parking violations. Who could have predicted an entire building come crashed down?

The driver left William at the steps of City Hall—something in the driver's face of an empty shell as William mumbled a word of thanks. William watched the cruiser drive away, felt like he could glimpse into the future: by the end of the day, the driver's wife and children would be on a red-eye flight to the other side of the world, the kids fidgeting in their seats, an exhausted wife rubbing her face, and the husband, sitting at home, would still have that same look on his face, glancing up irregularly at a sudden creak in the house—wondering if that military officer had come to carry out the threat.

William turned around started up the steps. Like the night of the kidnapping, City Hall crawled with bodies. But instead of political luminaries, the steps were swathed in police detail: snipers on the roof, search dogs scurrying about, bomb-squad quietly ambling with their detection equipment before them. All along the Hall stood a hundred police officers, facing down the street. It was like they were protecting a military base.

William walked purposefully, making no eye contact, but did not look away from anyone either. Nobody stopped him until he arrived at double-doors. A small impromptu security station guarding the entrance. William greeted them with a perfunctory nod.

"I'm here to see Lieutenant Green."

A mean-eyed security guard looked up from a sudoku puzzle on his desk. "For what business?"

Lily Greene's hatred for the Batman was legendary; so was Yindel's. William decided to take a chance.

"I need to debrief the LT on a reported sighting of Suspect Number One, AKAed 'The Batman,'" lied William in his most boring voice. He then threw his hands up most dramatically. "My squad knew it was a prank call, but you know how it is. I just need to debrief the LT before she bites off my hand, man."

The security guard nodded perfunctorily. He went back to the sudoku puzzle. "Go on ahead."

William entered the hall—a blast of hot air and noise assaulting his senses, like walking into a wind tunnel. A huge crowd waited to enter the banquet room. An anxious crowd; a fidgeting, trembling crowd. The total opposite of the smooth, charismatic atmosphere from the Commissioner's retirement. William fought his way through the banquet room; this time, his badge did him no favors. He jostled for inches within the hot mess of tumultuous bodies. Reeking of anxious sweat and odorous breath. Suddenly the room suspended itself into silence, lasting only a moment, and the spotlights turned on. The crowd roared to a loud buzz, like excited bees swarming around their Queen Bee: Commissioner Yindel walked out onto the stage.

"Quiet," she snapped irritably at the buzzing of the banquet room. The buzzing evaporated instantly, and a reprimanded silence installed itself afterwards. William felt like he was back at school.

Yindel clamped her bony fingers around the edges of the podium, a gesture like that of a vice in a workshop. A short woman, maybe a foot shorter than Gordon, but her posture infinitely more erect. Everything about her strict: silvery mop of hair cut at the neck, navy pea-coat wrapped tightly around her, and rimless eyeglasses constricting her nose. An unbending demeanor, like a bar of steel. Lips as thin as blades of grass, and shoulders so wide they could balance the world upon them.

Her gaze fell upon the crowd: her eyes, through her glasses, enlarged to a slightly distressing size, like looking into giant insect's eyes. She pulled the microphone to her, adjusting it to her satisfaction, making sure it would catch her words but not her inhalation of breath.

She took her time. And everyone waited. Then, finally, mercifully, she brought an end to the silence—

"Working off several leads in the Gotham Police Department, as well as other agencies in the city, we have no reason to deviate from our original suspicions that the vigilante known as 'The Batman,' is our prime suspect for James Gordon's kidnapping, as well as the terrorist attack on Wayne Enterprises." Moving her head from the microphone, inhalation of air, then—"The lockdown of the city will continue until Suspect Number One is captured, or if we can verify, without a question of a doubt, that he is no longer in the city. My office, as well as the mayor's, will continue to coordinate with the local militia groups in order to accommodate civilians and city-workers with food and supplies. We understand that this is a hardship for everyone, but until we can assure that this threat has been neutralized, we will continue to act in the interest of Gotham. I open the floor to questions—"

A blitzing of movement as reporters fought and jostled each other for their turn at questioning. Yindel settled back nicely on her heels while the reporters tussled. She seemed to be enjoying herself.

A dark-skinned, exhausted-lookign reporter emerged victorious, holding a microphone to their sweaty, clawed-at face. "Hello, Commissioner Yindel. There are many concern and sightings of these 'grey marauders' around the city. Many believe that these marauders, not the vigilante known as the Batman, are responsible for the attack and—"

"Which people?" asked Yindel curtly.

The reporter fumbled for a second, flipping through a dozen stapled papers. "Well, various eye-witnesses from the C.A.R.E. program have said that—"

"Care," repeated Yindel, a satisfied smile on her face. Had she been expecting this line of questioning? "C.A.R.E. is a city-sponsored outreach program for the homeless. We took into account these 'witnesses' testimonies, and concluded that we could not trust the veracity of many who, by their own admission, were under the influence of drugs, or struggle with mental illness that may hamper their hold on _reality._" Yindel let out a small sniff of laughter, as if she couldn't believe she had to answer such a ridiculous question. "Next."

Another reporter emerged: dirty-blonde, elderly, and near-sighted. "Commissioner Yindel, there are many people expressing worry with the use of paramilitary forces to guard this city. Certain civil rights lawyers are filing suits of litigation in the courts this morning, claiming that their presence is, and I quote—'unconstitutional, dystopian, and unnecessary.' What does the Commissioner's office have to say about these—?"

"As I explained earlier," said Yindel briskly. "Our dependence on private security forces is a temporary solution: they are an alleviant, not the cure. Once Washington and Capitol hill mobilizes our national forces, I will suspend all militia activity. In the meantime, I suggest those civil rights lawyers take up their grievances with the federal government, because I myself am growing weary with the delay. Next."

But the reporter refused to yield the microphone: a resolute-looking woman, chin stuck out like a boxer. William realized she wasn't near-sighted but glaring. She was not going to back down. "Commissioner, many have reported that these militia forces use intimidation and violence to 'guard' the city. How can you pretend that you are safe-guarding Gotham while relying on a force that is the very antithesis of safety and protection? Your predecessor, Jim Gordon, once famously said that the justice system must bring in criminals 'by-the-book,' that if we rely upon their methods, we are no better than the bad guys. How could you do this?"

Yindel's bug-eyes glared mercilessly at the reporter. "Jim Gordon worked with the vigilante known as the Batman for years—something unsanctioned and unconstitutional. And do you know how he justified that? He said it to me several years ago: 'Sometimes in order to protect the people, we must do things the people don't want to do.' And right now, I have two-hundred tons of steel lying in a pit where—"

The blonde reported all but jumped over the lip of the stage. "Are you justifying your reliance on the illegal militia with the same logic Jim Gordon used to rely upon the Batman? Does that mean that the Batman isn't actually a threat?"

The crowd leaned forward, the tide sucking in closer. Yindel, for the briefest of moments, was wordless. Then her face contorted with scorn. The hate spilled out of her blown-up eyes. "I don't have time for rhetorical games. What I do have is a hundred dead bodies that have yet to be identified in the wreckage, and I have three-hundred wounded in hospitals that are struggling to accommodate everyone, and I have a dangerous vigilante running loose in my city. So unless any of you have any real questions, I'll leave the senseless speculation to _her_. Thank you for your questions."

Yindel deftly exited the podium, just as an avalanche of questions fell upon the podium. The reporters tried to chase her down as she exited the side-stairs, but a large security detail rebuffed them. Everything unique about Yindel marked her the total opposite of Gordon. Where he was crumpled, she was crisp; he mumbled, she commanded. He hunched, she stood up tall like a flagpole, looking taller and bigger behind that podium than Gordon ever did.

The security detail came down the banquet: all of them dressed in impeccable suits, their cuffs bleached and their shoes polished a foot deep. Again, an invited comparison with Gordon. With him, the bodyguards looked like a ceremonial afterthought. With Yindel, she was a Queen strolling about with her royal escort. And City Hall was her palace.

William followed the escort out of the banquet hall. He was unsurprised to see Lily Greene accompanying Yindel: it was the position of the right-hand man, a most trusted councilor. Lily Greene and Yindel were conversing in low voices when Lily Green looked up and found William standing at the entrance to the hallway. Her expression trembled for a moment before collapsing back into neutrality. That could be both a good sign or a bad sign. Then Lily Greene excused herself to Yindel and broke away from the detail. She headed toward William with a coldness in her eyes. She was not happy to see him.

"I know what you're going to say," began William, raising his hands, "but let me explain. I was sick. Really sick. I couldn't get out—"

Lily Greene stood inches away from his face; he could see angry Rorschach blots in the irises of her eyes. "Which hospital?" she seethed.

"I—I wasn't at a hospital."

"How convenient, Trevor."

Nothing convenient about her tone. And without a second of warning, she was grabbing the police badge on his breast, ripping it off so that a button went flying and the cloth tore.

"You're suspended indefinitely. Without pay."

Nearby police officers watched from the corner of their eyes: their hands on their belts, their mouths partly opened. William felt all the eyes on him—especially hers. Pitiless. Furious.

"I'll need you to surrender your service weapon, too."

He was out of his body. He was looking at the scene like those nearby police officers: what an embarrassing scene. Is she really firing him _here? _In front of all of us?

He barely had his gun out of the holster when her cold, irritated fingers snatched it from his hand. He had never fired it once; would he ever?

"You disappeared in the middle of the worst terrorist attack since 9/11." She was nearly trembling with outrage. "Do you have any idea how that looks?"

"I—"

What was he supposed to say? Recount everything that had happened to him? Tell her that a paramilitary organization had kidnapped him in the sewers? That they injected with with a super-serum? That there was no Batman, that it was a man named Roland who already controlled half the city? It was the worse alibi in the world.

And yet, it occurred to William, quite ironically, that this was _exactly _what he had planned to tell her all along. His face threatened to crack with a laugh.

Lily Greene exhaled forcibly; looking like she was struggling mightily to keep from swinging at him. "You think this is funny."

"I don't, Lily—I mean, Lieutenant," he said, regaining his bearing. "It's just—there's something you need to know. I don't know how to begin . . ."

Should he begin at the sewers? Start with Roland—the serum?

"I'm waiting, Trevor."

His brain worked too fast, much faster than his mouth. Lily Greene looked like she might explode with impatience, and before he could think of anything better, his mouth ejected a ridiculous string of words: "In the sewers—there's mutants in the sewers."

She blinked, she didn't react. In the end, she shook her head gently, and walked away. He was left alone in the hall, surrounded by cops who were pretending to be in the middle of conversations. But none of them were really talking, William could sense all of their eyes still on him, as if they could see through the back of their heads. Judgement. Humiliation. His chest ached with emptiness; like the empty spot on his lapel

William walked out the hall before his face turned any redder. First the black serum, now this.  
What else was he going to lose?

His shame carried him all the way down the steps of the hall. A can of soda tumbling down the pavement. A bus-stop with a cracked advertisement of gorgeous women surrounding a roulette table: _Century City Casino – the luckiest place on earth! Come here and score big, player! _

His shame screened images across his eyelids: A whole new city, a whole new life. Bubbles of champagne and soft moans of women and ecstasy all the time. Go ahead, nobody is watching. Who would know—how many more months do you have anyway?

A violent car-engine ruptured his self-pity fantasies. Down the street came a large, black SUV with tinted windows. The kind of car that belonged to politicians and gangsters. It came to a slow stop before him. The tinted window rolled down—behind it, a man holding a cigar, wearing a dusty trench-coat. He was not smiling.

"Commissioner Gordon," said William immediately. He saluted. "I—I didn't expect you, sir?"

"That was the point, Rookie," said Gordon, squinting at William like he was a thousand yards away. "And you can quit with that 'Commissioner' nonsense. I'm retired."

"Sir, yes, sir."

Gordon blew out his cigar smoke. He tapped the cigar. He watched William.

"Well?"

William frowned. "Well, what sir?"

"Well are you going to get in the car? We don't have all day, son."

William looked around. Nobody looking at him; nobody to tell him yes or no.

William opened the SUV door and slipped inside. The SUV immediately lurched into motion.

A spacious and comfy interior, if very dimly lit. No wonder Gordon had squinted. William sat uncertainly on the black leather seats while the red ash of Gordon's cigar lit up the space between them: hazy and unclear in the smoke. William could feel a cough building at the bottom of his lungs.

"You smoke, Trevor?"

Gordon opened up a cabinet and produced an identical cigar. William's initial impulse was to shake his head and mutter a perfunctory 'no thank you,' but the events of the week spooled in his head like a never-ending movie reel: the butchered bodies, the sewers, the serum, the attack on Gotham, and now the empty spot on his lapel.

In his ear, a voice: How much time do you have left anyway?

William took the cigar. He put it in his mouth.

"You're as green as the tobacco leaves that wrapped this cigar, huh, Trevor?"

William froze with the cigar in his mouth. Gordon chuckled.

"You have to cut it first, son. Come here."

Gordon fished out a cigar cutter from his pocket and William held out the cigar. Gordon sliced off the tip and handed it back to William. William placed it between his lips, leaned forward, while Gordon lit a match in his cupped hands and brought this forward like a sacred offering.

The flames threw curling shadows all around the SUV. Gordon's face lit up in crazy, cave-man hues. "Breathe in," said Gordon. He leaned back and extinguished the flame; the SUV plunged back into darkness.

William pulled in on the cigar. It tasted like ash.

"Can't smoke in my own building, can you believe it?" said Gordon. He pocketed the cutter. Pulled on his own cigar; the smoke curling, misshaping his face into shadowy polygons. "The things that do change: no smoking in restaurants, can't swear at work anymore. And meanwhile look, the things that _do _matter don't change: this city, I swear. Turn on it for a second, and it all goes to hell. I wasn't retired for a single day before it all starts again."

I have to go outside and smoke. can be a bit crude. Not like Yindel, mind you.

It hit William all at once: the rush of nicotine, the suffocating odor of tobacco, the numbing of his mouth. He started to choke.

"Stay with it, stay with it," said Gordon easily. He was looking out the tinted windows: outside, streets and buildings slowly progressing on treadmills. "But it isn't all bad—first female Commissioner in Gotham history, could you believe that? There's a _professional _woman, if you catch my drift." Gordon tapped his car on an ash tray, then, sighed rather heavily. "Ah, it's not her fault. She's got to be a mean son-of-a-bitch to make it through the trough-line of GCPD. It's a sexist, racist pig-stye over there, and you to be mean to climb the shit pole. I got lucky, to be named that young—or maybe it's_ unlucky, _you know?" He cackled darkly, like he was trying to cough up a hag of mucus, and then leaned back, temporarily spent of energy. "What a thing, to serve this city."

He went quiet; slumping on his seat, his belly curling up like a little mound of clay underneath his trenchcoat. The very image of weathered-out old man.

"You know I actually thought we won. Can you believe that, Trevor? I thought that this city could be something more. Just your regular, vanilla-type of crime. No more psycho penguins, black masked crime lords—no more demented clowns. Just a regular old place."

The SUV drove through empty grids of the city: no cars parked, no bicycles in the racks, not even a stray cat to be found. It felt like they were driving through a miniature scale-model of the city. Artificial, too clean. The black asphalt glimmering underneath the sunlight. Exposed grey surface of the sidewalk; bits of newspaper dancing in the gusts of air. Always lightposts flanking the streets like the ladders of a ribcage. Silence devouring all of Gotham. Not a pulse to be found.

William coughed again; he was having a hard time holding the cigar and managing the ashes.

Gordon frowned. "Why don't you kids ever speak up?"

He slapped down an ashtray beside William.

"Didn't want to disturb you, sir."

"So you thought you'd ruin your uniform instead?"

William look at the black smudge on his thigh. "I'm suspended indefinitely, sir. Might not need it anymore."

Gordon's leaned back into the plume of smoke surrounding him; a deep, chesty sound coming from him—coughing and laughing at the same time. A dying man's hack.

"H—hand me that water, son."

William handed a water from the console to the Commissioner. Pop the cap, and Gordon gulped mightily from the bottle, as if he had just run a grueling marathon in the desert.

The coughing subsided. Gordon wiped his hands with the palm of his hand. Through the dim light and the smoke, William caught a smear of blood across the back of the Commissioner's hand.

"So you're probably wondering why you're in this vehicle?" asked Gordon quietly. His hand was on his chest, resting.

William felt every limb in his body go limp and tense at the same.

"When I heard that Wayne Tower fell, the first call I made was to the homeless center in the financial district—You learn after so many years in this business that the people who notice everything are the people _we _don't notice: the beggars, the homeless. They can get anywhere, see everything. So the shift manager at the shelter told me that there's been a decrease in the foot traffic lately, says that was to be expected with C.A.R.E. kicking all of those poor souls onto Old Gotham."

Gordon tapped his cigar ash over the ash tray, meditatively. He seemed to regain his strength.

"But she tells me that the few still hanging around are barking nonsense. Raving about an army and a new miracle drug. She said that I wouldn't want to hear it—and I tell her: 'Janice, that's where you're wrong, because that is _precisely _what I want to hear.' So I drive down there myself, and I get non-stop ranting about an army crawling out of the sewers, about this magic powder or drug that turns anyone into a superman. And there's talk about a man dressed in grey, but they say he is not really a man, more like an idea, an _entity, _and he lives in the sewers, lurking down there like some alligator." Gordon puffed his cigar, looking inquiringly over the column of smoke. "So what do you think I did with that information, Trevor? All that nonsense about a boogeyman in the sewer?"

"I don't know, sir."

"I called Water and Power, of course," said Gordon, a flash of smile on his face. "I wanted everything on the sewers underneath Gotham: old maps, schematics, read-outs, water levels, whatever. I put in the order in person—imagine that, Trevor: me, the mustached albatross of this city, suddenly showing up on to some poor clerk's office, asking them for files that must fill up a library. I've been in bureaucracy all my life, so naturally I expected my request to take a couple of days, maybe even a week." Gordon lowered the cigar, and his voice dropped a step in his tone, as if the two of them were being lowered into a deep well. "But to my surprise, my order didn't take a week; they had everything I wanted all packaged up and ready to go. I said 'that's impossibly fast,' but the clerk there tells me that a young police officer had already made the same request, a few days earlier. That this young police officer—pale, sickly looking, with a crop of messy hair and intense eyes—took him on a joyride throughout Gotham, looking up murder scenes. And this officer, when I went to look him up afterward, just so happened to drop off the map after some imposter took me for a joyride around Gotham City. Isn't that just a coincidence, Trevor?"

William, who had long since stopped smoking the cigar, had forgotten to breathe. His throat was swelling up, his head going light.

"You can relax there, Trevor. I'm not here to threaten you. Unlike an old friend of mine, I don't frighten people much. Call me old-fashioned, but I try to be as straight with people as I can. So here's my brilliant, cobwebbed theory: you know something about everything's that's been going on. I'm not saying you're responsible, because I know who your family is. They were good people—are good people. The question is: are _you _good people?"

William blinked. "Sir?"

"C'mon, Trevor, they told me you were brilliant—that you scored a perfect on your exams. Don't make me have to spell it out now."

William still stared, dumbfounded. Gordon sighed and put the cigar away. He slapped his ashy palms together. "Alright, kid, here's the deal. If you want out, we'll take you out of the city. I still have that authority. You'll never be police again. But you'll be safe, and you have a family that loves you. You'll be alright."

Outside the afternoon was turning; the soaked red hues of dusk appearing at the edges of the sky.

"But if you want to stay in this SUV, you'll be with working for me, directly. You still won't be police, but you'll be a sort of 'secret' police. You won't be safe, your family won't be here to save you. It's not a smart decision. But I am in desperate need of your help."

William was quiet. He looked into Gordon's eyes. Was the old man telling the truth? Did Gordon really need _him—_William Trevor? Did he have what nobody else had?

"I think—"

"Hold that thought, Trevor." Gordon suddenly pounded on the glass. Slowly, the SUV came to a stop. They were at an intersection, at the heart of a normal heavily congested area. But today—empty and wide-yawing in all directions. To the east: main avenue feeding back into the city. To the west, the bridges leading out of the city, and the cold, placid river in between.

Gordon opened the SUV door – sheafs of crimson rays hovering in the cigar smoke. "Before you say anything, I want you to really think it through. Because I've seen better men than you or I go down in pieces because of this city. It's ruthless, especially to its heroes. Take your time. Ten minutes."

William stepped out into the late afternoon. The air sweet and therapeutic to his smoked-out lungs. The asphalt steady underneath his boots. The nicotine swirled inside him, and there spun the flotsam of his shame. He walked a little, stretching his legs, while the question resurfaced from the underwater canyons of his ego. The last time he had seen it was down in the sewer, right before certain death:

Is this what it means—to be a man?

He looked out over the river. It had nearly gotten him killed last time, that questions. How it had strangled him, imprisoned him. He hated his sister because of it; he hated his mother, his father. The people emasculating him, treating him like a little kid. He had only wanted to prove himself. And look what that had done.

The surf of the river glinted with a million bubbles. It whispered of the champagne, of the roulette girls, of pleasures and fantasies to behold. Why do it? Nobody was watching. No guaranteed medal at the end of the tunnel. Why not take what was easy for once?

He thought about his mother, his sister, his brother, his father. He thought about them for a long time.

"Well, son?"

William closed the SUV door behind him; his eyes had to readjust to the darkness. The parked SUV rumbled eagerly underneath his boots: where to now? William picked up the cigar, observing it like he had just found it. "My mom would yell at me if she saw me with you, sir. She'd yell at me for smoking this."

"That's what good mothers do," said Gordon measuredly. He watched William; clearly, he could not read the young boy. "They worry about their sons."

William handed the cigar back. "Crazy thing, love. More dangerous than this thing here. Makes you do all sorts of strange things."

The Commissioner took the cigar, his face splitting into a grin. He was understanding it.

The SUV headed East, back into the city. And William sank a little more comfortably into the leather chair, while Commissioner Gordon poured them both glasses of whiskey from the console. William recounted everything from the last week: the birthday party, the bodies, the sewers—Roland, the Grey Paladin.


	24. Chapter 23 - The Cave

Chapter 23

Emma sat astride the rooftop of her home. She was with her feet planted across the valley of a gable. The slope of the hill falling below her; the bushy hillside, the meandering stream, acre after acre of suburban homes, reaching all the way to Gotham City. An azure skyline, clean and crisp, with a column of smoke in the skyline.

The news reported a body count of over one hundred. They said that was a lucky outcome, considering.

_Considering. _

What did that mean? Considering that the attack had occurred at night? Considering there were only a few pedestrians about? Considering it was the financial district, and the people who had died were not particularly well-liked?

Emma hugged her legs a little closer to her chest. There was a breeze picking up. Summer no longer feeling warm and comforting. It felt insufferable.

The sound of the sliding door opening. Below her: someone stepping out onto the patio. Emma had lived in this house her entire life, she could discern each member of the family's footsteps: William was thin and wiry and hardly made a sound, her father was broad-chested and walked as hard as he laughed; her mother walked gracefully.

Emma did not recognize these footsteps: crisp, tonal, and a little hurried, as if they were anxious. The footsteps walked out on the concrete of the backyard patio and came to a stop right before the garden. They were taking in the horizon.

Several minutes passed. Emma heard long, ragged breathing below her. And then—

"It's not your fault, you know. None of this is. Your brother is going to be okay. Everything is going to be okay."

Emma was too depressed to be surprised. It was Lucius. Of course he knew she'd be up here.

"I'm too old for fairy tales, Lucius. I'm starting to realize that the good guys don't always win." Then, a brief moment of hesitation, the sun unmoving in the sky, the slate roof warm underneath her jeans, the column of smoke on the horizon like an accidental smudge of charcoal on a mural, and Emma finally mustering up the courage to ask: "So how is my brother?"

"He left to the city. Your parents tried stopping him. He threatened to call the police."

"Of course he did." Stubborn, idiotic, and brilliant—her brother all the way.

"It really isn't your fault, Emma. You shouldn't blame yourself for what happened. "

"Do you know how many people were killed in the explosion, Lucius?"

Lucius was silent. With an idle finger, Emma drew circles in the minerals of the slate roofing.

"One hundred people," she said. Her finger moved aimlessly on the tile. "And that's only the people they've found so far. There could be more people buried, or the people in extensive care could succumb to their injuries."

"There was a report today on the news," began Lucius; he had taken a big breath of air before speaking. "A tankard in the Southeast pacific blew up because of a cabinet fire. It killed everyone on board—nearly a hundred men. But perhaps you blame yourself for that, too?"

"I would, if I could have done something about it."

"I've always hated that word, you know."

"What word?"

"'If.' It's such a deceitful word."

Across the horizon, an airplane crawled against the blue sky. The breeze rattled the flowers in the garden. A caravan of cumulous clouds glided toward the sun—any moment now, the patio would collapse into shade.

"You could nothave saved Wayne Enterprises, Emma. You're holding yourself to ridiculously high standards."

"To whom much is given, much is—"

"No, that doesn't apply here, Emma. Look at your mother, look at your Uncle. They are struggling against this man Roland. Do you have any idea how much experience they have in these matters? And yet you expect to defeat him single-handedly?"

The clouds tipped into the diameter of the sun; the sky was turning. And the entire valley, garden, and rooftop dimmed. The breeze continued, and without the sun, now a little chilly on her forearms.

"How is my mother, Lucius?"

"How do you think? She blames herself for your brother. And your father, in turn, blames himself. And I'm sure you're following that pattern. Everyone is taking turns taking the blame."

"I am to blame, Lucius. Maybe not for Wayne Enterprises, but for my brother. I saw him go into those sewers. I abandoned him. And earlier, at breakfast, I couldn't even look at him in the face."

"William was serving his duty as a GCPD officer," said Lucius. "And he disobeyed orders when he went off on his own to track down Roland's agents. I know it hurts to hear, Emma, but your brother's destiny is of his own making. He did this to himself."

"But if I was there _with _him," insisted Emma, "he wouldn't have been poisoned."

"No," said Lucius firmly. "You both would have. So let's be thankful it's only one Trevor."

Lucius still did not understand. He would never understand.

"Back at Wayne Enterprises, I fought more of them," she said quietly. "I kicked one so hard in the face his jaw came off, Lucius. And do you know what that man did? He got back up, that jaw swinging back and forth like a pendulum—"

A stronger breeze. Emma curled tighter into her ball.

"He's going to be fine, Emma."

"I couldn't even look at him at breakfast, Lucius. I kept seeing his jaw detached from his face. Those dead eyes. My little brother."

"Ra's said that if he takes the serum on a regular basis —"

"Did you find that cure?"

"We're still breaking down the serum, Emma. We won't know its composition—"

"Did you find the cure, Lucius."

Lucius was quiet again; an irritated exhalation of breath. Tears fell down her cheeks, onto her knees. The breeze stung her red, welted eyelids.

"I'm his big sister, Lucius. I'm supposed to look out for him. He's not like me, or my mom. He's more fragile than people think. I know he puts on a hard face, but he's just a little kid."

"These are trained killers, Emma," said Lucius finally—defeatedly. He didn't have anything else with which to comfort her. All he had left was the truth. "And you're just one person."

"So was he," she whispered into her thighs. The breeze whisked her secret away, over the garden, down the hill, through endless columns of bushes and trees, into the great vacuum of stillness on the horizon.

"Who? What was that Emma?"

Emma stood up from the rooftop. Something she had been thinking about. "Let's take a drive, Lucius?"

"We can't go into the city, Emma."

"We're not going into the city, Lucius."

She dropped down onto the patio: her boots impacting the concrete, her black hair whirling in the air, then she was standing up straight. Holding her palm out. "Do you want me drive?"

An odd-sounding energy in her voice, like her soul had been repossessed. It clearly discomforted Lucius. He was holding onto the suitcase in his hand with a suspicious worry on his face, like he might have to raise the suitcase in self-defense. But nothing came of it; the two of them stared each other for only a few seconds—what felt like a minute, and Lucius had the fleeting impression that there was more of this come.

He resignedly dumped his keys into the palm of her hand. "Try and not crash this one, okay?"

They headed around Gotham City, not towards it, and Emma steering his new Mercedes with the precision of a dynamite stick. But it didn't make a difference. It takes two to tangle on the highway, and the highways were empty. Like ants on a giant's shoulders, they traversed the yawning immensity of the hilly countryside outside of Gotham. Highways carving into the hills by a giant's hands; the contours of the winding embankments, yawing and pitching underneath craggy mountains—the sun all the time sinking behind the hills, the sky bleeding out midnight ink, the clay earth falling away to granular shadows of bushes and trees. They were in the outskirt forests now, and the sensation of wild coyotes, maybe even a lurking wolf, just beyond the slung shadows of the forest.

Lucius knew precisely where they were going—felt it in his throat, as invisible yet certain as the air expanding in his lungs.

"It's getting dark," pointed out Lucius. "Your mother will be worried if we don't head back."

Emma kept driving – almost smirking, as if to say: _nice try. _

They came into a dense arcade of poplar and great oaks trees; the road suddenly coalescing into polished cobblestone; the dappled moonlight beginning to glow luminous on the floor. The tires of the Mercedes rollicking, a bumpy humming in the car.

The certainty in Lucius's throat tightened. He had been down this road many times, in a previous life.

At the end of the arcade loomed a massive iron fence – the spokes sticking up warningly like the palisades for a fortress. Beyond the fence was a horseshoe driveway, curling and enormous, a large fountain sitting at the center of it. And as the Mercedes gained on the cobblestone, from the center-focus of the arcade, rising up behind the horseshoe driveway, emerged the twin towers of a mansion.

"It's an orphanage now," explained Lucius. "You need a visitor's pass to get in."

Still Emma pressed hard on the gas; the Mercedes's grille growling, eagerly eating up the cobblestone path, hungry for the rich marble treasure at the end.

"The kids are probably all asleep, Emma," insisted Lucius. "You're going to wake them all up."

The mansion fully in view now – stony and sublime; a long square exterior of cornice windows, pointed arches, and imposing stone walls. Balustrades along the crown of the mansion, like defensive crenellations. The stocky mansion sat authoritatively underneath the moonlight: implacable, impassive, like a solid bulwark capable of outwaiting any siege war.

They were nearly at the iron gates – the first obstacle to pass, the moat, and Emma gunning straight for it.

"Emma, what are you!?—"

She flung the car off the arcade road, blustering into the perpendicular black. She whipped the headlights to life, and twin cones of light blew up the forest immediately ahead. Gnarly tree trunks whizzing by them, branches swinging overhead, and the dyad glitter of an owl's eyes staring at them from the darkness. The Mercedes bouncing, Lucius gripping the car handles with both arms, and Emma driving with her eyes intense—the most focused he had ever seen her.

How was she navigating? How could she _see _anything?

The tree trunks lurched vainly. The branches swung and missed. And somehow, Emma never hit anything in the forest. The Mercedes whined on the forest floor—it was designed for smoothness, not wild terrain— and there came another sound from it: a toiling, whirring boil. Lucius prepared himself for the engine to burst into failure from maybe a clogged system, or a stone kicked up into the axels.

But the Mercedes righted itself onto a soft clay path that ran in the middle of the forest. A path perfectly illuminated by the moonlight, ploughed by a lifetime of use. But what car would drive way out here—so far out in the middle of nowhere?

The toiling, crashing sound billowed to a crescendo; and Emma brought the car to a stop, the headlights spotlighting a furious, churning waterfall ahead. The water falling through the cone of light transmuted into thousands of yellow bright crystals.

The Mercedes hummed patiently. And Emma and Lucius sat in the car, waiting.

"You know where we are," said Emma quietly.

Was that a question? Was that a statement? The delicateness of Emma's voice was pillowy and blade-sharp.

A dollop of clay seemed to clog up Lucius's throat; hard to swallow, hard to speak.

"It's alright, Lucius," continued Emma. "When we were down there in that bunker, that gigantic beast of a vehicle; the computers, the arsenal of weapons . . . all of that was _his, _wasn't it? I recognized it from the newspapers."

The Mercedes hummed underneath their seats. Outside, the waterfall churning reliably and faithfully along to a steady beat. All the woodland creaks and chirps closing in around them—And Emma kept speaking along—merciless.

"And that got me thinking about all the special gadgets he used: his armor, his jet, his grapnel boost, his batarangs. I always figured he had to have been a genius to make all those things. . . or have a genius working _for_ him."

Lucius breathed—it was the loudest thing in the cabin of the Mercedes, muting out the crash of the waterfall, boxing out the stillness of the expansive forest. Emma kept going.

"I know what Mom saw in Dad—_my_ Dad, I mean. He's funny, he's kind, he's sweet—always makes you feel like you've known him your whole life. He's a good man. But Bruce Wayne? I—I mean, growing up, it was hard to believe that my mom would choose a guy like that—arrogant, lazy, and sexist. You told me yourself how he slept in boardroom meetings, how he never showed up on time. He was a terrible person."

"Emma," began Lucius with a tight, muted voice. He wiped the sweat of his forehead. "I don't think it's the safest thing to hang around a forest at night. Maybe we should turn around—?"

"Somebody else told me a story about his 31st birthday party—he nearly drove his helicopter into his penthouse, and then he laughed it off. How could my mother love someone like that? I deal with those guys all the time—on the train, at work, on my way back from work: Arrogant assholes who think they own women. And I hatethem, Lucius. I hate them so much. I couldn't stand kissing them, let alone bear the thought of having _children _with them."

"You clearly have a lot on your mind, Emma. Why don't we go back home and talk about it? I believe William would like to hear some of this—"

"Maybe she liked bad boys—that made some sense to me," said Emma plainly. "A lot of girls like alpha idiots. And Bruce Wayne had 'bad decision' written all over him, didn't he? But I think there was something else to Bruce Wayne—I suspect Mr. Billionaire-asshole had a softer side to himself. A side that he showed my mother. My mother always loved to be the heroine, didsn't she? I doubt nothing appealed more to her sense of duty than a misunderstood, mal-adjusted rich boy who she believed she could save . . . and he was rather handsome—that helps," she added thoughtfully.

Lucius was no longer talking – what would be the point? He was trying to redirect an avalanche twenty-one years in the making. And it was finally here, unseating him, tumbling him down a mountainside, and Emma ploughing more and more snow, uncovering more skeletons, more secrets buried in the past. It was time to raise the dead from their slumber.

"And it got me thinking about the night Ra's Al Ghul came to town," said Emma. "He said that this city's greatest defender trained with the League of Assassins. That's how Alfred knows Ra's. That's how you know Ra's.'"

Her body shook and she put her hands on the steering wheel to relax herself. She had to get it out. It hurt, the secrets in her belly. Like a cushion of needles, a handful of jacks. The secrets poisoning her, scarring her stomach muscles, pressing against her lungs.

The darkness of the forest seized the present moment—that stillness, that arid lining of reality, and clung onto it, refusing to let go, like a string pulled tightly on a nail, tighter and tighter until the tension reaches its zenith and snap!

"Who am I, Lucius?" she asked quietly. "Who is my father?"

The question rebounded eternally—the torn body of that string redoubling and flapping. Lucius stared ahead at the waterfall. She saw the thoughts on his face; the fast and furious methodical thinking in his eyes. Five minutes slogged by – purling shadows of trees hanging at the edge of visibility; a cratered moon above the treeline; and the soft clay of earth steady beneath them.

"It was for the best, Emma," he said finally. "We were just trying to protect you."

Emma stared ahead; the forest implacable and still, offering her no mercy, no solace. Ugly, unfeeling truth.

It was true. It was all true.

The painful entity surfaced out her throat. She gagged on emptiness, she choked on air. Her body shivering, her seated position spinning to the earth's rotation. The waterfall ahead: a million yellow crystals falling like a lucky pot of gold.

"I know that's not the answer you want to hear," continued Lucius in the same tone. "I know you must feel angry. But I didn't tell you the truth—_we _didn't tell you the truth because lives depended on it. Nobody could know. Do you understand?"

"No," she said in a small voice. Her fingers hugged the steering wheel.

"Your mother and I talked about it. One day, when enough time had passed, she was going to tell you. She was going to tell you everything."

"One day," repeated Emma—_when? How?_

"I'm sorry it took so long, but—"

"When were you going to tell us?—_how _could you not tell us?"

"We did what we thought best," said Lucius firmly. He was not going to argue this point any further.

What else was there to say? To do? She had asked and he answered; now the only thing left was to accept it. The numbingness seized her body; her blood carried hallucinogenic oxygen to her muscles, lifting her up like the strings of a kite, a ribbon of velvet floating across a nighttime sky. None of Lucius's words felt real: they were an illusion, just like the falling crystals in the waterfall were an illusion, a temporary trick, and once the lights were shut off, reality would reinstall itself.

And yet, her heart thumped loudly in her chest; every moment the truth ingratiated itself into her body. This was a life long struggle to find herself, and the discovery came underneath a bandit moonlight, in a forbidden forest, before a hidden cave—it all spoke of some adventure tale. She was the girl destined for more, who looked out onto the sunset, waiting. And here it was—the unveiling of the hidden secret, the revelations of the past.

Had she always known? A small part of her, nested stubbornly in the corner of her subconscious, always suspected, always nudged her along, guiding her toward this moment.

It was why Emma had navigated the forest so easily; she just had to follow the signs.

Lucius sank a little more into his chair, looking more relieved than reproving.

"How did you figure it out?"

"Bits and pieces," said Emma numbly—her forebrain had assumed autopilot of her mouth; she was still spinning in the new truth. "Things you and Mom and Alfred would say. You guys thought I wouldn't notice."

"I mean the waterfall, the cave."

"Oh . . . at Niagra falls, the week after our elementary culmination. William slipped on the wet rocks, broke his bone. Alfred said, 'we should just take him to the hospital,' and you pointed at the waterfalls, saying—"

"'Maybe they have x-rays in there?'" finished Lucius, smiling softly. "That was nearly ten years ago, Emma. You remember that?"

"Always did."

Slowly, Emma undid the clasps of her fingers on the steering wheel. She unbuckled herself—spinning or not, the world was still here, and she wanted to leave her footprint on it.

"Can we go inside?"

Lucius shook his head. "I don't think that's a good idea, Emma."

"That's not what I asked, Lucius—"

"Easy, Emma. That's not what I meant. The system has been shut-off for decades. It can make noise if we try opening it up. Attract the wrong kind of attention."

Emma stepped out into the night air – cool, crisp, earthy smell. A breeze whispering on her cheeks. Pine-needles crunching underneath her boots. The waterfall's roar like an incoming train—always getting louder, more personal.

"I'm going inside."

Lucius's passenger door opened. He came out hurriedly. "Hold on, Emma. I'm not sure that's a good idea—"

But she was already gone, moving forward, hypnotized by the spell. Beyond the sheet of falling water, underneath the yellow crystals, hung the impossibly black void. A warp tunnel into another reality; of new possibility, of secrets and sorcery. And she no longer commanded her legs; the spell had taken her, called to her—destiny.

"Emma! Emma, wait there's a security system!"

"Then turn it off," countered Emma. Her legs carried her forward.

"Dammit!" Lucius quickly slipped around into the driver's side. And Emma came to the lip of the earth – the Mercedes's lights on her back, the mist of the crashing water dousing her. A million tiny water droplets clung to face.

Without thinking, without doubt clouding her mind—she leaped. The moon somehow growing bigger but strafing at the same distance, like a carnival optical illusion. The waterfall enclosed her, the water assaulting her senses, encircling her membrane, becoming her dangling forever—

She flew through the void, hollering. The blackness swallowed her down its gullet, and for a moment she was slipping through gravity and time; axis-less, unmoored vacancy. It terrified her and exhilarated her. And quite suddenly, the cave-floor yanked her out of oblivion.

Cartwheels along the cave floor; the pain flaring all along her hipbone like some emergency alert: knees, ankles, thigh, hips, arm—red alert. Her entire body tumbling over the bed of rocks, her voice still hollering like some accompanying movie score.

Finally, she stopped tumbling.

She heaved; she breathed. She ached all over. Slowly, she picked herself up. She listened carefully while her eyes adjusted to the black. Behind her, the roar of the waterfall, the ghostly echo of her screaming. And all around her, the high-slung shadows of the cave slowly materializing before her eyes.

Her eyes adjusted, and as they did, the cave came to life: a lake of black water emerged at the center, as still and tranquil as death itself; stalagmites rose up out the rock like flowers of an undead garden; stalactites sliding down the ceiling like the tears of some underworld lord. And across the far end of the cave: columns of flowstone hanging, like a grand pipe-organ for the dead.

And all the time, a deep-chested gurgle emanating from underneath the cave. For a wild moment, Emma readied herself to face a giant slumbering beast. Like in a storybook; she had trespassed into the giant's cave, and with her wits and strength, she must fight her way out.

But no beast emerged from the lake, no underworld lord came down from his throne.

Instead, the familiar sound of hydraulics shifting and pistons firing—the same hydraulic-sound she recognized from the elevator carrying her down to Wayne Enterprises.

Ripples across the surface of the black lake – the water frothing over itself as something emerged at the center—a hulking black beast, an implacable miracle of metal, rising up out of the lake. Sheets of water dripped off its chassis, glossing the chassis in lush obsidian black. At the same time, soft blue lights lifted the cave into better clarity—things she could not see before: railings, stairs, desks, worktables, and cabinets. All of it black and blue, all of it hidden, all of it waking up from a dormant sleep.

And walkway emerged out of the lake, but it kept so level with the water it was like walking on water. Across the pathway stood a large platform, for a moment, nothing else happened. But that platform was too big, too deliberately designed to be empty space. Emma followed the signs again, she walked across the walkway.

On either side of the pathway, the water offered up her black-blue reflection: she did not recognize herself; she saw only a silhouette. Tall, long haired, and female. A wraith.

When she crossed the pathway, more pistons—she had expected it, like she had been here before. And in some ways, she had.

A glass cabinet rose up out of the center of the platform—it dazzled with clarity, it was the only cabinet not encased in black. Inside the glass cabinet, hanging like a fossilized prehistoric predator, was a black suit. Emma stood up the foot of the cabinet; and in the reflection of the cabinet, she and the suit came up to the same height. Emma's hazel eyes stared at her from out of the narrow slits of the cowl; her jaw fit easily underneath the grooves of the cheekbones.

A near-perfect fit, but maybe with a few modifications to the waist and chest.

Behind her, she heard frantic splashing. Lucius was coming up from the mouth of the waterfall.

"Emma," he was saying, gasping. "Wait."

The cowl's intense, angsty features glared at her. The sculpted pauldron shoulders, the sleek waist; biceps swinging with strength, a merciless interrogators bootheel.

"I'm not waiting anymore, Lucius. I've done enough waiting."

"You don't know what you're asking for, Emma. I know this all looks impressive, but that thing you're looking at . . . it _killed_ your father. And he was the best there was."

"People are dying, Lucius. And I'm not going to stand around. Not when I can help. I don't have a choice in this, don't you see?"

She turned around; Lucius was at the end other side of the pathway; his clothes soaked, his face red. He looked like he had just come off a stormy ship. But the way he was looking at her— sad, soft eyes—made Emma feel a tad unsure of herself.

"What, Lucius?"

He adverted his eyes, looking into the reflection of the tranquil lake, like he could see into their depths. "Your Dad, Emma . . . he told me the same thing, twenty years ago."

Suddenly a flying monster came screeching out of the empty void of the cave—a bat, soaring through the cave air, serene and deathly-black, encircling above them both. It danced in the air for a moment before swooping out of the mouth of the cave, leaving behind only the shrieks of its nocturnal presence.

Lucius walked down the stairs of the platform. He moved gingerly, tiredly—defeatedly.

"Your mother will find out about this, Emma."

"I'm a grown woman, Lucius. I'm not afraid of my mother."

Which was not true—Emma knew that, as did Lucius. Nobody was every 'ready,' were they? She looked at herself inside that suit again; something about its weight instilled Emma with a new steadiness. How composed was a young Bruce Wayne, her father, on the eve of his own first excursion—wasn't he afraid? Did Alfred or Lucius _approve _of what he was doing?

The answer was no. Adulthood, Emma was quickly realizing, was a sobering thing. People gave you advice, helped you along, but ultimately, it was up to you, to decide what was right.

"Are you ready?" she asked of the girl in the reflection.

The girl in the reflection: pale, wet, trembling. Because the truth was that nobody ever knew. Not even family. They loved you, helped you, cared for you. And with that love, you do the best you could.

"Are you ready," she whispered again to the suit. "Were _you?_"

Lucius lingered on the stairs. He called out again, something final and resigned in his voice. "If you do this, you have to make me a promise, Emma. The same promise your father made to me. I offered him my services on one condition: that when the fighting was done, when the city could look after itself, when the city no longer needed Batman, he would retire."

Such an easy request irritated Emma: it was so obvious. All things came to an end. A problem needs a solution. Once that equation is fixed, what else remains?

"Of course, Lucius. I promise."

She felt his lingering presence behind her; he was staring at her shoulder blades, his face worn and leathery.

"Right," said Lucius. His voice sounded like a fading memory. Going, going—gone.

He shuffled away, and Emma turned her attention to the rest of the cave: the overwhelming sensation of a thief in the bank vault; a child in a candy factory—where to begin? The gadgets and cabinets and computers all around the cave. She walked the dimly lit railings, lettering her eyes wander, her fingers gently caress. Inspecting it all, nothing too disinteresting for her attention. And the growing certainty in her chest as she catalogued and admired the possessions in the cave—the computer, the cars, the grapnel boosts, the body armor, the capes, the weapons, the datafiles. Everything and anything in this place. It all once belonged to her father . . . and now, it was hers.


	25. Chapter 24 - The Broken Pieces

Chapter 24

Diana stepped down into the basement. There was already someone down there.

Steve Trevor's supple shoulders moved along gracefully: the muscles interlocking underneath the ripples of his shirt. He worked a broomstick on the floor: strong, steady swipes, collecting the dirt into the center of the room, underneath a ceiling light. She watched him work for several minutes, uninterrupted. He worked silently until—

"Pass me the dustpan, yeah, Di?"

She picked up the dustpan by the basement steps. "I thought I told you I'd take care of this, Steve?"

"Yeah . . . it's been four days, Di."

Steve disarmed the broom from the handle and knelt to the pile of dust. He gently brushed the dirt on the dustpan; small, brisk strokes. Like a painter finishing up a last minute detail.

"I'm sorry, Steve."

Steve pressed on the footpedal of a waste-basket; the lid opened to receive the dirt. His foot left the pedal, and the lid closed accordingly.

"It's alright, Di. Nobody is expecting you to do this all by yourself."

The sting of his comment caught her in the rib. She accepted it unflinchingly—and a small part of her understood she probably deserved it.

On her work desk were stacks of boxes. Steve pulled all sorts of decorations out from them: a foam tarantula, a roll of faux webbing, and finally a bright jack-o-lantern grinning deliriously.

"Halloween?" said Diana. "That's a long time away, Steve."

"Not really," Steve set the jack-o-lantern beside him on the table. "It's practically September already."

Diana gave him a wan smile. "You know what I mean, Steve."

Steve turned the jack-o-lantern away so its smile faced away from them. Steve leaned against the table. "So that's it? Our lives are over now? No more Halloween, no more Christmas—no more of any of that?"

"Steve," said Diana in a patient, almost patronizing voice. "Our family is—"

"Still here," said Steve. "Are kids haven't gone anywhere, Di. They're just grown up."

Silence slowly reinstalled itself after that comment. Steve put the broom away in a corner. Diana felt the helplessness building back up inside of her.

"We should be proud of them, Di. Of Emma and Will."

"Proud," repeated Diana. Her eyelids twitched with anger, indignation.

"What? Would you rather have cowards for children, Di? People who run away from the fight?"

"I don't care _want _them to fight, Steve. That's what you don't understand."

"They're adults, Di," said Steve simply. "They're old enough to make their—"

"No, they aren't! This isn't a game, Steve. This is _dangerous._"

"I know how dangerous it is, Di."

When had they begun yelling? Their hollering bounced around the basement, increasing their rage like a domestic greenhouse effect.

"Then act like it! You're in this basement sweeping while our children are out there in the city—do you not understand what Gotham City is? Thatour children could actually die!?"

"But isn't that always the case, Di!?" said Steve exasperatedly. "You're acting like our children were going to live forever. The truth is: we're lucky, Babe. You have no idea how lucky we are."

"Lucky?" she repeated in a tone so cold it could freeze fire. "Have you taken a look outside? Do you know what's going on out there?"

"What I knew would happen when I married you, Di."

His answer struck her into silence; an answer she could not have foreseen. Like an unexpected cramp taking rude control of the mind: she had no choice but to heed attention to it.

"The world wasn't always going to be so peaceful, Di. You and me, we had our time out here, didn't we? We raised the two of them the best we could; loved them, cared for them. But think of who their parents are—Bruce Wayne, Me—_you. _Did you ever think about that? Did you really think that someone like you could have 'normal' children?"

"Yes," she hissed angrily, but that sensible part of her, almost laughing, whispered: _no._

"No, Di," he said, smiling sadly. "The answer is no."

"I left that part of me behind, Steve. I left it behind so my children could have something better."

Steve embraced her; took her into his arms, brushed her forehead, looked into her eyes with tenderness and understanding. "I know, Babe," he whispered. "But in this life, we don't get what we want."

She did not mirror his tenderness; fury enclosed her heart, froze her affections. She pushed his hands away. "No, Steve. No."

Steve's flashed winced with rejection. He patiently stayed out of arm's reach. "I'm sorry, Di, but someone has to tell you the truth. You can sit in this house feeling sorry for yourself. Gotham needs you."

"Sorry for myself . . ."

She looked like she was on the verge of murdering her husband. Steve shrugged.

"I know you don't want to hear it. But somebody has to tell it to you, Di."

"Weren't you the man begging me _not _to go fight? You told me how dangerous Roland was, but now you want our children to go and fight him—"

"No, Di!" cried Steve angrily. "I wanted you to fight as a _team! _I wanted you to rely on _me, _on Alfred—on your friends and family! Instead of trying to do it all by yourself, dammit!"

"I'm protecting them, Steve! I'm protecting _you."_

Steve's voice dropped down to a whisper. "And how is that going for you?"

Right there, an ugly balloon of air sprung up between them: vibrating, trembling, and sweltering with cold anger. It would be a long time before husband and wife were on good terms again: he knew it, she knew it.

Steve put the Halloween decorations back in the box. He slid the box into a corner, forgotten. "I have to go the store." He put his hands into his pockets, breathing controlled and focused. "I'll see you later."

"The store," she repeated lowly. "Our children are missing, the city is under siege . . . and you're going to the store."

Steve was halfway up the stairs. "Yeah. People are still buying things, Di. People are still going to work. The world doesn't stop just because some asshole in a gray outfit blew a tower to hell."

Steve disappeared up the steps; his footsteps moving upstairs. The sound of the front door opening, closing—silence recapturing the home.

Diana trembled in the basement. She thought about her children—an inescapable habit, a synaptic firing wired inextricably from her fuse box.

She _was _proud of them, despite the dread she carried in her belly. She admired their stubbornness, it made her proud that death did not cow her children into submission. But that was the way with young boys and girls—why they made such excellent soldiers. Their minds like empty cups waiting to be filled by whatever patriotic calls-to-arms. No one that age thought about their eventual death—and why should they? Death is as close to their lives as Mars is to Earth.

But would her children have experiences—friends, families of their own? Emma was unbelievably tough—both physically and mentally, but how long before that toughness destroyed a building? She was so clumsy with her strength. And William—how long did he have before that virus ate away at his brain? Diana herself had a millennia of life experiences. Her cup was brimming with both faded and ardent memories, nearly overflowing. And her children scarcely had a drop. That's what they would know of life – that single, arid drop. And for all of the excess in her own, Diana could not gift her children a drop from her own immense reserves. They had to live their own lives—she could not do it for them.

From the upper-reaches of the first floor, the doorbell rang. _Ding!_

Diana snapped out her thoughts. She hurried up the stairs. "Coming!"

Clark Kent stood on her threshold: his face a healthier color, but bruising still clouding the area around his eyes. And he held his left side gingerly; the place where Roland has stabbed him.

"Kal-el, you look better."

"Di."

It looked like it cost him just to say those few words. She helped him inside.

They went to the living room; Clark smelling of antibacterial lotion and medical gauze. Diana lowered him into a chair.

"Thanks," muttered Clark. His face winced as he fully extended himself in the chair.

"Tea?"

"No, thank you. But here, I have something for you—"

He produced a wrapped package from his coat. Diana ran her fingers along the seams. She knew it was a photograph.

"Open it," insisted Clark, looking both earnest and in pain.

She undid the wrapping: a framed photograph of the birthday party. The twins by the cake. Diana and Steve standing beside them. A family laughing—hard to believe it was a week ago.

Diana rubbed a thumb over William's immortalized happiness: he was still William then.

"Careful with the fingerprints, Di."

"This is beautiful, Kal-el. Thank you. I'll put this . . . let me see . . . where to put this."

She looked around the various endtables and furniture in the living room. Plenty of open, inviting places for the photograph. But something else nagged at Diana's mind.

"Let me see," she repeated, still looking.

"Di," said Kal-el slowly. He knew something was wrong. "You alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine, Clark. Here! This is a good spot. There. Do you want any coffee? Tea?"

Clark leaned forward in his seat; visibly concerned. "Di, are you—?"

Diana gripped the framed photograph so hard the glass finally cracked. All across the frame the white spider-web cracks obscure the faces of her family. Everyone broken.

"I—I am losing my children, Clark. My family. I don't know what's left."

Clark listened silently on the couch.

"All I've done, I did to protect them: William, Emma, Steve, and my little David. And listen. Do you hear that?"

Silence. Clark's eyes floated around the room, as if he could dig up a sound. But nothing.

"They should all be here with me right now. I can protect them here. This was our home."

"It's _still_ your home, Di."

She shook her head. "A house isn't a home unless there is a family in it, Clark."

She looked at her hands as if she could divine her fortune through them. "When Bruce died, I thought that was the end of it, Clark. I had it fixed in my head like an equation: a great death bought a great peace. An eye-for-an-eye. But maybe Bruce wasn't as great a man as I thought–this peace was supposed to last a lifetime. Turns out, it only bought twenty years."

"Only twenty years," croaked Clark. His voice sounded dry than sand. "That's a long time, Di."

"To whom? That's nothing to you and me, Clark. We're _old. _So is Ra's and his daughter. Twenty years is a grain of sand to us. What's twenty years to a normal man like Steve or William or David?"

Clearly, these were fears surging up from the netherworld of Diana's consciousness; things she had long ago buried, but never forgotten. The way she spoke about them—lucidly, angrily—told Clark she had been living with these things for a long time.

"Can I ask you something, Di?" asked Clark gently.

Diana nodded.

He leaned forward in his seat—as much as his wound allowed. "It's said that the Amazons are immortal warriors. That they live until the sun expires in the sky. But I've seen your mother. She looks, well—like your _mother_. I mean no offence, just—"

Diana let out a sniff of laughter. "You're not offending anyone, Clark. Yes, my mother looks old."

"But why—how? If the Amazons are immortal."

"Those stories were written by men in the classical era, Clark. Back then, life expectancy was barely over 33. Anyone who lived a hundred years or more pretty much appeared immortal."

"So, you are not . . . I mean . . ."

Diana shook her head. "I age like anyone else, Clark, but at a very slow rate. Despite what Ra's says about his Lazarus, there isn't any _true _way to maintain eternal youth. The Lazarus, if you recall what Ra's said, restores his youth, but he never comes back the same way. Each time, he is a little bit less than he was before."

"So, you _are_ aging, just slowly."

"Why are you bringing this up?"

"Because a few months ago, I discovered this in my hair."

Clark parted the side over his left ear. A bit of gray beside behind his ear.

"It's this sun's radiation," he explained cheerfully. "It's accelerating my aging process."

"Congratulations, Clark," she said dully.

He let his hand back down. "I didn't think I _could _age. I always thought I'd remain like this forever."

"You sound happy about it."

"I am," conceded Clark. "It's nice to know that I'm not going watch my friends, my family, die before I do."

Diana was suddenly very silent. She knew where Clark was steering the conversation toward.

"I know Emma got the Amazon gifts, Di. But the boys—William, and David, and Steve, they'll—"

"I know, Clark. I've done the math."

Clark adjusted himself in his seat; like he was being more cautious. "I know, but, considering that fact, maybe you could look at William's new _condition, _as a sort of blessing . . . I mean, if what Roland's says about his new serum is correct, then Will should live for as long as he—"

"You really are always optimistic, aren't you, Clark?" said Diana, shaking her head. "I don't know if I want to hug you or punch you—a blessing? My son being poisoned is not a blessing."

Clark sank back into his seat. "It's just a thought. My dad always told me that there isn't any use fighting reality: 'The world is the way the world is.' You can go along for the drive, or it can drive you crazy."

"Then what's the point of getting out of bed in the morning?" she said dismissively. "if 'the world is the way the world is'?"

Clark looked ashen-faced. "I didn't mean it like that, Di. . . forget it."

He settled a little more in his seat. His hands were huge and could crush mountains underneath their grip – but they were currently tucked in timidly in his lap. He looked vulnerable and sad. Like a little boy in time-out, impossible to be angry with – it reminded her of William.

Diana sighed: she gently squeezed his hand.

"You have no idea how silly you are, Clark. You're the strongest man in the world, but you have the most fragile personality. Thank you for trying to cheer me up."

Clark looked up at her. The sadness made rough hews in his bruised face.

"I wish things weren't like this, Di. I'm sorry."

"I know," she said, squeezing again. "But they are."

The door opened again. Diana half-expected Steve's sullen face to appear around the corner—instead, the distinct beats of footfalls: two beats divided by a soft beat. It was Alfred on his cane.

"Hello, you two," said Alfred pleasantly, leaning on his cane. "Did you know they destroyed a building out there?"

"Alfred," said Diana, standing up immediately. "Sit down."

"Mr. Kent. Nice to see you. Although I wish under better circumstances."

"Me too, Alfred."

Alfred, and his cane, settled down on the chair just vacated by Diana.

"I have what I believe to be rather distressing news. I've just come back from a lunch with my contacts in Gotham bureaucracy—the missing persons are starting to reappear in Gotham."

Clark frowned. "But that's a good thing, Alfred."

"Yes," conceded Alfred. He bit his nail nervously. "But the families are noting strange phenomena surrounding their reappearances: violent bursts of anger, hallucinations, and the occasional broken piece of china."

"Broken piece of china," repeated Clark, a strange smile on his face, like an inside joke he was struggling to understand. "What does that mean?"

"They're all infected with the serum," said Diana. "Roland kidnapped them, drugged them, and released them back into the city."

"Yes," said Alfred. He played with the handle of his cane, rolling it across the webbing between this thumb and forefinger. "But unlike Master William, Roland did not provide them with their own private collections of the serum."

"How do you know that?"

"Because one of them told me," said Alfred. "A retired army General, now a political luminary. He asked me if I could have Lucius create some more—discreetly, of course. He does not want anyone knowing."

"Can you?"

Alfred gave Diana a steady, unblinking look.

"Right," she said, grimacing. "So Roland holds the serum for randsom over their heads: do as I say, or else."

"I'm afraid that's not the worst of it," said Alfred. "This same General oversees the deployment and shipment of military resources. Roland has demanded that the General block all military support into Gotham."

Clark blinked. "I don't understand."

"Well," said Alfred, now bouncing the cane between his cupped hands. "Yindel is depending upon a private paramilitary force to keep the peace in Gotham, right? And when our national military finally arrives in Gotham, she will suspend with that paramilitary force. But now that we know that this military force will _never _arrive—"

"Yindel is working for Roland," said Diana quietly.

"Or at least _with _Roland," said Alfred heavily. "But yes, I came to that conclusion as well."

"This is great," said Diana, closing her eyes, sagging her shoulders. "This is—right in front of us. How long have they been planning this?"

Alfred gave a shrug: who knows? "But Gotham City is a hub-nexus for the world. If Roland taints this city with his serum, it will be fairly easy for him to poison the entire world."

"How long do we have left?" asked Clark.

Alfred rested his chin on his cane. "Difficult to say . . . six months, maybe a year."

This was all too much; how could this possibly be the same reality as that framed photograph of the birthday party? That felicity, that naivete, was only _seven _days ago . . . and now the world teetered on the lip of ruin, all because of _one _man; a grey hooded jester, a street magician, a whisper in the streets.

The ground threatened to unmoor Diana; knock out her ankles, fling her to the ground. William was sick, Emma was missing, and her husband hated her. What the hell was happening to her family?

Alfred, noting the precariousness in the room, very gently began to speak: "We need a coordinated plan of action. We need to strike back, before it is too late. We need the Justice League."

"It's gone," said Diana in a hoarse whisper. "Half of them are more than dead, Alfred."

"Then we must recruit new allies," continued Alfred measuredly. "We have Ra's, his daughter, his men. We have you two. That's about fifteen bodies."

Clark suddenly grabbed his side gingerly—he looked to be wincing from a phantom memory of the grey army. "Fifteen isn't going to be enough. Not against Roland."

"We could try and convince the local GCPD into our ranks," said Alfred. "In Bruce's day, they were his natural allies. I personally knew three dozen officers who would have given their lives for Batman's."

"Expect Yindel has them convinced that Batman is _suspect number one_," said Diana. "They think he kidnapped Gordon. They're not going to help us."

Alfred leaned back into his chair, resting both hands atop his cane. "Either way, we need more help."

Clark nodded at the framed photograph. "What about—?"

But a death glare from Alfred quieted Clark immediately.

Diana walked away from the two men; a thought pestering her mind. A ludicrous idea, she knew that. The chances of it working were astronomical. And yet, what other options did they have?

"I could talk to my mother," she said finally.

Alfred let out a chuckle—hearty and authentic. "Recruit the Amazons? I thought Clark was the optimist, Diana."

Clark, however, was intrigued. "Your mother, Di? How?"

"If Roland succeeds, if he poisons the world's leaders, then it's only a matter of time until he'll set his eyes on Themyscira."

Clark frowned. "Why do you say that?"

Diana exhaled. "Because as proud as he is of his serum, he doesn't want to be reliant on anything for too long. There exists a small portion of our own elixir of life on Themyscira. Roland will want to take that for himself."

"Do you mean it could cure him?" said Clark slowly. "It could cure William?"

Diana smiled bitterly. "Yes, Clark. But I already thought about it. My mother would rather die than give that serum to my son—that's how deep her animosity towards men goes."

"If she won't sacrifice her resources to help her own _grandson_, I can't imagine her affording us her army, Diana."

"Everyone has a price, right?" said Diana. "If things get truly desperate, then I'll talk to my mother. This will become her problem soon enough."

"Truly desperate?" said Alfred, wearing a confused smile. "Is that not what we are now?"

The front door opened and shut; Steve Trevor appearing around the corner, little David asleep in his arms. Steve slowly addressed the guests.

"Clark, Alfred," said Steve easily. He did not look at Diana.

"Master Trevor," nodded Alfred.

"Hey, Steve," said Clark quietly.

"I'm going to put the little prince to bed," explained Steve. And without looking at Diana, as if she was invisible in the room, he turned and headed upstairs.

Clark pretended not to have noticed anything strange. But Alfred, always whimsical, smiled bitterly. "Marital problems?"

"Something like that," said Diana.

"I'm sorry about that," said Alfred. He said this without any sarcasm—he truly meant it.

"So," said Clark, eager for a shift in subject, "what now?"

Diana's eyes went to the framed photograph: smiling faces of a family. And Steve's angry words rebounded in her skull: fight as a _team. _Depend on your family and friends. Was she ready to make that step? Did she want to make that step?

No, but sometimes the world does not care what you want.

"I want you to get into contact with Ra's and his daughter," said Diana carefully. She said this to Alfred "Tell them that we're done doing it my way. We want to cooperate."

Clark's face twitched—was it approval on his face? Was it surprise? Probably both.

And Alfred, he folded his hands over his lap. His eyes, normally blue and watery— shone with soft pride. Like a father sitting down in the audience, watching his daughter on stage. "It should be interesting, Di," said Alfred. "Seeing you and Talia fighting together."

Diana exhaled. Talia was a smug, arrogant, and hateful bitch. But she was a fighter, above all things. And that's what they needed right now: fighters.

Alfred pulled a phone out of his pocket. "I'll get into contact immediately, if one of you might help me up . . ."

Diana helped Alfred to his feet; he dialed on the phone and drifted away on his face.

Clark came over to Diana. His voice low but earnest.

"Do you really think that'll be enough? Roland has an _army, _Di."

"And we have eachother, Clark," said Diana. "You don't think that's enough?"

Clark's face caught a sliver of sunlight from the window; for one moment, he looked free of his wounds. He looked like that young midwestern boy she had met thirty years ago: youthful, bold, and soft-hearted to the core.

Alfred shook his phone irritably. "There's no cell service in here. Let's go outside backyard."

"Ra's and Talia will be enough," said Diana. "They've worked together for centuries. They probably make an unbeatable pair."

The three of them walked into the backyard drabbed in dusk light. Everything painted over by a brush dipped in honey; silky threads of a golden loom everywhere. And at the furthest reaches of the sky, lilac night was starting to bleed in, like age eating away at the edges of a mural. Gotham City sitting like at the center of the vista; drawing the eye away from the rolling hills, the river, the bridges, the hillsides, and the forests. It all led back into that basin at the bottom of the valley; those skyscrapers standing tall like pillars of an ancient civilization. A city that would remain until the sun exterminated in the sky.

"Ra's and Talia in the Justice League," said Clark lowly. "It doesn't feel right, Di."

"It isn't right," agreed Diana. "But what other choice do we have, Clark?"

"What about your children, Di?"—Clark glanced nervously at Alfred, then—"I know you don't want them involved in this, but they're in the game already. You said it yourself."

"My children will," she began matter-of-factly, confidently, but the doubt held her tongue. What _would _become of her children? She felt the compulsion to grab them, hug them close to her body, protect them, nurture them, hide them from the dangers of the world

But when she reached out for them, her hands closed on empty air, they clutched at the far-away city. Gone.

Diana stared at her hands. "My children will always be my children. My responsibility. I'll always look out for them."

Clark opened his mouth to reply, but then he closed it again. He thought about what she said.

Alfred suddenly came around on his cane, tucking the phone into his pocket. "Ra's will be here in a few days. He says he's sorry he cannot be here soon: business."

"What does he mean 'business?'" said Diana irritably. "Does he not watch the news?"

"Where is Ra's?" said Clark.

Alfred looked at the both of them. "Overseas."

Something about that simple word, and the hesitation on Alfred's face. Clark and Diana exchanged a nervous look.

"He also told me to tell you two, but especially you, Diana: 'I'm sorry. I tried to stop it.'"

The familiar feeling of foreboding entered Diana again: the same dread in the kitchen the morning of the twins' birthday. The feeling of doom encircling her, closing in.

"Stop what—Wayne Tower collapsing?" she said quietly.

"Probably," said Alfred, although he doubtfully looked back onto the horizon, eyeing the missing spot where Wayne Tower used to be.

Something wasn't right. They all felt it.

Alfred was the first to snap out of the mood: he tapped Clark on the shoulder. "Come with me, Master Kent. We need to start up a new base of operations. And there are a lot of files that we need to take out of storage."

Clark followed Alfred dutifully out the garden. This left Diana alone in the backyard.

Fear, that's what she felt. But it was a familiar sensation: something she thought she had abandoned all together—twenty years ago. She had thought that time was over, but perhaps good and evil were like seasons, switching on and off, a time for peace, and time for war. Now she had to put away the summer clothes of peace away; and bring out the coats and the chainmail. Already her mind was adapting to the stormy swells heading their way: more loss, more anger, more hurt. She would take in this moment—because when else would she have the chance to enjoy a sunset? She looked beyond the plunging hillside, the shimmering river, the steel arches of the bridges, the helicopters flying over Gotham, the tanks, the footsoldiers, the dread and the panic, the grey water lurking in the sewers, the grey Paladin tightening his noose, the city waiting for the next.

She looked beyond it all and tried to ask a favor from the future; whatever it was, whatever lay ahead, let them be enough.

"We'll be enough, Bruce" she promised to the sliding, dying, sunset of dusk. The stars would soon be out, and with them the wishes of every young child whoever gazed upon their twinkling magic. He was out there, Bruce, as was every father and mother who died before their children grew up. And their children—the cold William Trevor and the headstrong Emma Trevor—were out there as well: in the same in the city, underneath the same dusk night, living in the same present moment. Making mistakes, growing up. Living their lives. This thought—so cliché, but so difficult to swallow, took root in her chest and fanned the dying embers of hope in her heart. She was beginning to accept the unthinkable: her children would always be hers, even if they were no longer here. And for a moment, before the disparity of their situation could extinguish her hope, this new acceptance blew into the flames until they sweltered with passion, with belief. And Diana found herself saying, praying, believing, the impossible: "I swear, _we _will be enough."


	26. Chapter 25 - All Comes Down to This

Chapter 25

_Somewhere in the Arabian Peninsula_

A dark and arid night in the desert. His footsteps kicked up plumes of dust that whispered silvery secretes in the moonlight. He had been walking for hours in the craggy wilderness, and his throat cried out for water.

Up ahead the desert wilderness twisted in long bends and valleys. Nothing for miles except sedgeweed and dried bush. Many lizards scurrying along the bone dry floor. The scorpions burrowed underneath rocks, watching his progress with their beady black eyes. And above him, the most extraordinary constellations of stars. There seemed to be more bright lights than there were dark spots in the sky: that thought instilled in him a measure of hope.

He watched the stars carefully. Centuries ago, sailors learned to navigate their way across the oceans using the stars. He was doing something similar, except he needed no astroglobe. Centuries of practice had etched the stars into his mind. He just had to follow the right constellations.

And he was headed in the right direction. But he had to hurry.

The object of his search was a place inaccessible by any normal means of navigation. A bizarre fact, but quite definitive. He once plotted the coordinates on a map, yet when he returned the entrance was simply missing. He then tried leaving a homing beacon, only to read on the corresponding radar that the beacon was transmitting from the Alaskan gulf—half a world away.

It was magic, there was no other explanation. The place was a relic of another force on this earth, and it would not succumb to the technology of mankind. It had to be respected.

After an hour of dusty footsteps, he came upon the familiar ridge. On the other side, in the bowl of the valley, sat a camouflaged cave. If you blinked, you missed it. But if you were desperate, if you were an inch from death and in the throes of hunger-induced hallucinations, the cave would appear before you.

That is how it was the first time: When he was a wounded soldier lost in the desert. His men had been massacred, his lands forsaken. He saw the mouth of the cave in the desert, and thought it was a good place to die. Little did he know he would stave off death for centuries.

He came upon the mouth of the cave and heard its whisper. Like a seashell. All these years, and it still sounded the same. He pulled a torch from his rucksack. It released a brilliant ball of flame in the darkness. He went inside.

Cold, damp air—it tightened the skin on his bones. Like the life was slowly sucked out of him. A slanted ground floor; he felt himself descending lower and lower as he walked into the cave. The torch flame illuminated the space immediately before his nose and nothing more. It was like walking into infinity.

Always losing his sense of time as he walked—this was a random and relative experience for each person. To him, the walk lasted only fifteen minutes, but others swore that they ambled aimlessly for hours_. _Talia said it was a short five-minute walk. Roland said it took him nearly a day.

In the distant black void of the cave, the very faintest green flame flickered. It was barely a curl of fire. He lowered his torch. Again, it felt like he had walked fifteen minutes.

He came into a stone-cut chamber. Sparse, clean, and set with a deep pit in the center of the chamber. Stone benches on either side of pit. At the far end of the pit was an altar. The green flame here blazed confidently atop the altar.

Talia stood at the foot of the pit, her back to the stairs and to him. Her disciples stood before the benches on either side of the pit. And on top of the altar—a body, wrapped in thin silk.

"Father. You made it."

Talia's voice, barely a whisper, rebounded throughout the chamber in perfect fidelity. It was like she was speaking into his ear. And when Ra's spoke, he barely raised his voice, too.

"For the sake of the centuries we've shared, please do not do this, Talia. This is madness. We've never brought anyone back whose passing lasted more than a day. This man has been dead for _twenty years!"_

The phrase 'twenty years" rebounded endlessly in the chamber's echo, as if a multitude of ghosts in the walls were chiding the audacity of their intended actions:

_Twenty years, twenty years, twenty years. _

"He could come back a monster—if he comes back at all. Don't you see, Talia? We won't be able to control him."

"You couldn't control him in his previous life, Father. That's why I want him."

"He's not some puppy you can bring back, Talia. He's not—_I command you not to do this!"_

Ra's unsheathed his sword. The blade shook in his hands. He would not hesitate to kill his own daughter.

But Talia did not move. Her back remained exposed to him. Her naked, unguarded back.

"If you are going to strike me, Father, you are going to need more soldiers."

Ra's addressed the benches: "I am the leader of our armed forces. The sworn commander of our entire organization. I order all of you to stop Talia Al Ghul."

He saw some flickers of doubt across the faces of the guard. For a moment, Ra's was sure they would remember their true allegiance. But whatever doubt existed in their minds fell in the wake of Talia's calm confidence. She shook her head, and they steeled themselves under her resolve.

The sword in his hand quivered: for the first time in centuries, he was on his own. He was that dying soldier who stumbled into the cave, who took the elixir of life int his trembling lips, who started everyone on a path—a path that led things to here. The circle of life. An eclipse.

Ra's adjusted the sword in his hand. Was this how it ended for him? A part of him saw the symmetry. Too perfect. And he couldn't let this happen, even if it cost him his life. He made down the steps.

"Father, don't throw away your life so recklessly," said Talia in her relaxed tone. "I would hate to have to kill you – not because I love you, but because you possess a remarkable skill set. We will need you in the war to come."

Ra's was a step away from Talia's heart. Would she be able to move out of the way in time? No, he had a clear shot at her heart. He held the blade strong—one quick movement, one jab; how many times had he executed such a strike? How many had he slaughtered with such an effortless move?

And yet, Ra's did not move. He was trembling now.

And Talia's torso began to roll. She was laughing.

"Why are you laughing?" asked Ra's icily.

"Because you know the stakes. If you kill me, my soldiers will kill you. But who will they resurrect? They have their orders, and there will not be enough Lazarus for _three _returns."

One deft movement, no longer than the beat of a hummingbird's wing—that's all it took, and he would be free of his daughter's maniacal plan. Then fight twelve of her men? Terrible odds, but not the worst. It was risky, but possible. He just had to take a chance—that he would come out on top. Because before, if he died, he knew the Lazarus would bring him back. But this time.

Talia's laughter boomed to a terrible, insufferable sneer. "I gave you too much credit, Father. I thought perhaps your love for me would stay your hand. Or your unmoraled pragmatism. But I think a far simpler conviction is keeping you from attacking me: you simply do not want to die. You do not want to face the judgement of whatever comes next."

Ra's found himself sneering. "Nothing comes next, daughter of mine. This is the only life we will ever have."

"Yes. That is what I tell myself, too."

The final step. He was close enough to fully extend his arm and touch Talia's hair. This was it. He had to stop this. He would not be responsible for this monstrosity, even if it cost him his life.

"Choose, Father: Life or Death? Me or you? A leap of faith."

His sword quivered in his hands. It was not fear. It was fury that throttled him: fury that he had been betrayed on multiple fronts: his daughter Talia, his student Roland, his son Bruce. They had all betrayed his entire life's work. They never could see his vision, they never shared his optimist. They stole his teachings, his guidance, and used those tools against him.

Fury. Fury Fury.

After all this time, after living with the threat of death for so many centuries, he had grown quite used to it. He had seen endless comrades perish gloriously in battle; a slew of enemies had fallen before him, clutching their throats, dying indignantly. He knew what death looked like; knew what it smelled like.

But he had grown accustomed to living. He had opened his eyes so many times, woken up so many times, and fallen asleep so many times, that he expected it.

Ra's Al Ghul was not afraid of dying. But he was afraid of no longer living.

His sword clattered to the ground. The adrenaline had exhausted him. She had been right all along.

"Wise choice, Father. I have hope for you yet."

Ra's began walking back up the steps. He did not want to see what came next.

"You'll thank me when this is all over, Father. Thank you."

Behind him, he heard chains slowly turning: they were lowering the body into the pit. Ra's kept walking, he looked determinately forward. If he looked behind him, he would dignify the part of him that was curious, that wantedto see the process. But he knew it was wrong. It was so wrong it made him want to vomit.

At the top of the stairs, Ra's rekindled the torch. Was Talia always like this? So full of herself and completely blind to the truth? He had made her like that. She was his child, and he was responsible for his daughter's current insanity. But that is the relationship with parents and their children. The generations that come after always generate inexcusable actions that led to great changes in history. Amoral and unanticipated. Terrible and murderous. Tomorrow, the world would be different.

The chains came to a stop. The body was inside the Lazarus pit. The process had begun.

"Thank you, Father," said Talia. She sounded emotionless. Fanatic. Totally enraptured in her own genius. "Thank you for trusting me. You will not be disappointed."

Ra's stopped at the mouth's entrance. The torch burned before him, and he was struck with the foolishness of hope: what if she was right? What if he came back and he was himself? Then this episode would be rendered one of the many wild escapades in his history—an exciting, foolhardy excursion in desperate measures that _worked. _Then the risk would be overshadowed by the spoils of its triumphant success. Nobody would care how much could have gone wrong, because so much had gone right.

Betrayal, family, and resurrection—it all came down to this. He finally stole a look behind him. What he saw was burned into his mind forever: Talia and her bodyguards chanting in low, melodic voices, and the wrapped body lying in the listless green water of the pit. Some unseen wind swept through the chamber, tossing hair, clothing, and rippling the surface of the water.

And underneath those ripples, in the undulating reflection of the water, perhaps by a trick of light - the wrapped body seemed to be moving.


End file.
